I knew I was taking a chance by parking my station wagon in the far right hand side of the parking lot after work on Wednesday night. But itís a marginally easier spot to drive into and it saves about a half a second on the short walk to the front door of our apartment so I decided that these two factors combined made it worth the risk.

"Did you park your car where youíre supposed to?" asked Marianne as I came up the stairs.

"No.î I said, as I took off my jacket.

She looked concerned: "Donít you think you should go a out and move it in case the snow plough guy decides to come tomorrow morning?"

"NawÖ" I said dismissively: "Itíll be okay, Iím not going to worry about it; he hardly even shows up. And, besides, it hasnít even snowed that much today."

I must not have sounded very convincing: "Why donít you just move it to be on the safe side?" She asked.

Iím too lazy to play it safe: "If he turns up he just can plough around me like he always does. Trust me, he wonít show up."

During the previous winter I had discovered a dirty and crumpled note under the wiper blades of our car, presumably left by the snowplough operator. It had been written with pencil in a scrawled hand and we couldnít make out what it said too well, except that we were pretty sure it contained the words ëparkingí and ëspotí.

When I spoke to my landlord next I asked him about the note I had found and what it had meant. ìYeah, he mentioned that the last time I spoke to him. Basically what it is, okay, is that heíd like you to park a little further over. It would make life easier for him if you parked a little more towards the centre of the lot instead of in the far right where you are parking, okay.î He added, "Although why he choose to tell us this now that the winterís almost over I donít know"

I told him that he could have always just have knocked on my door and asked me to move my car altogether, but I didnít care too much where I parked so I started parking where heíd requested, in spite of the fact that we had only one more snowy day before spring arrived.

On the first really big snowfall of 2003 there was no sign of the snowplough, but I had parked in the middle of the lot as instructed last year. After the second big snowfall of the year there was still no sign of the plough. I began wondering if snowploughing was more of an art than may have been immediately apparent. Perhaps snow removal has a lot in common with being an expert ski hill groomer, and requires a deep and intuitive knowledge of subtle shifts in snow conditions that the majority of the population are ignorant of.

Looking at it that way, I could see how it might very well be possible that only certain types of snow would warrant a plough. The decision to plough or not to plough is not just a question of 'quantityí, itís as much a matter of ëqualityí of snow. An expert snowplough operator could just look out of his window at five oíclock in the morning after a good heavy snowfall and say to himself, "It really snowed a lot last night, but ploughing this morning would be a mistake that only an amateur would make. The snow today is granular and loose and will make a great base for future snow falls. No need to plough today!" Then, with the confidence that comes from years of snow removal experience, he would get back into his warm bed.

A day or two later, inclement weather conditions would again call on him to exercise his powers of expert discretion: "You know what?î He would say, surveying the drifts and snow-engulfed landscape, ìI wonít plough today either. Iíve got a good base going from the last snowfall, and this snow is wet and packed and thereís a lot of it. If I know my job as well as I think I do itís going to get significantly warmer today. The fresh snowfall will melt slightly and combine with the granular base to make a perfect surface for the formation of ice when the temperature goes down tonight. Any well cared for parking lot should have a slick and slippery upper layer similar to what you might find on a skating rink or frozen pond. If you see that, you know youíre doing a good job!"

The third snowfall was of the type of day you and I would probably call a light ëdustingí of snow, we might even find it to be aesthetically pleasing, and probably not significant enough to take the effort to shovel the driveway. Itís in situations like this where the expert snow plough operatorís knowledge and skill really comes in handy: "Iíve created a really good glacier-like base now, really icy and hard; that no amount of ploughing is ever going to make a dent in it. In other words; a perfect day to get out there and start ploughing!"

This, of course, was the day that I decided that I would park in the far right hand spot. When I walked outside on Thursday morning my car was ensconced behind a wall of snow:

It was obvious that this was no accident; I immediately interpreted it as a symbol of war, a deliberate attempt by the snowplough operator to send me a message. The message was: "I donít know you, but I hate you. By choosing to park in the spot which I communicated to you via a thoughtful hand written note only last winter was unsatisfactory to me, you have added to the misery and frustration of my life exponentially. ì

ìI am a snow plough operator. Itís what I do. Itís bad enough I have to wake up early every morning to look out the window to decide that Iím not going plough, but when I decide that I am going to plough the last thing I need to see is some fancy schmanshy station-wagon in my way making it hard for me.î

ìI hate you, and therefore it is well within the code to which all snow plough operators adhere to plough your car behind an impenetrable wall of snow.î

ìDid I mention I hate you?"

I was pissed, and immediately went to talk to my landlord

îIím not happy.î I told the receptionist. She went to get the landlord.

He emerged affably from his office,î Come in and weíll talk." He said.

"Iím not happy." His happy look making me doubt that he would take me very seriously. "Iím really not happy." I repeated it for effect.

"Yeah, I kind of noticed that when you came in. Look, I feel bad, if you want thereís a shovel in the closet and you can dig yourself out.î He expected me to shovel myself out? I followed him into his office and he sat down at his long desk and took out a piece of paper on which he proceed to draw the house, the parking lot, my car as I had been currently parking it, and my car where the snow plough operator wanted me to parkÖ

He obviously didnít understand, I knew where the snowplough guy wanted me to park, I was just angry that he had he had blocked me in: "I am really, really not happy about this at all." I repeated.

"Yeah, " he shrugged; "but thereís nothing much I can do about it is thereÖ" He went back to concentrating on the diagram of the parking lot.

It took me a minute to process the statement, but as soon as I did I interrupted his explanation of the parking lot diagram mid-stream: "Why isnít there anything you can do about it?"

He looked distinctly uncomfortable that I was continuing on this course of conversation: "Well, itís done now, okay, and Iím sorry, okay. I can say something to him, okay, but heís kind of a rough and ready kind of guy, yíknow!" he flexed his arm muscles to demonstrate that he was a big, strong guy, a demonstration that contained a certain amount of admiration, possibly mixed with fear: " So, I could say something to him, sure, but I really donít think itís going to have much effect."

ìOkayÖ.î I said dubiously, as he directed his attention back to the diagram. I didnít let his pencil touch the paper: ìHold on! Doesnít this guy work for you?"

"Yes, I employ him.î A look of horror crossed his face: ìBut Iím not going to fire him! All that would mean is that I wonít have any one to plough the parking lot, and all that would mean is that have to find someone else, and I donít want to have to do that!"

"You donít have to fire him!î I honestly hadn't consider that as an option: "But I would think that fact that you employ him might give you some kind of sway over his actions." He didnít look so sure. I grew angrier as a spoke. There had to be something that would hit a nerve, that would prompt him to action; I wanted retributive justice!

"Look, this guy ploughed in my car on purpose. I have to pay my rent to you right, and in order to be able to pay you that rent, I need to be able to get to work! How am supposed to go to work when my car is behind a mountain of snow?!î I wasn't entirely convinced by my own argument, but I was getting myself worked up into a self-righteous fervour, and starting to enjoy myself: ìI will not be intimidated! This was no accident! It was deliberate and malicious! ItísÖ itísÖ a fragrant, I mean flagrant, act of animosity! And I will not stand for it!" I may have even slammed my fist on the table, I canít really remember.

ìOkayî my landlord said reluctantly. ìIíll talk to him and tell him not to do it again. Look, I do feel really bad about the whole thing.î

"Good! Thatís all I ever wanted to hear! All I wanted to hear was that you would tell him that what he did was wrong, and that youíll let him know that it was wrong.î Actually, I hadnít anything specific in mind but it seemed like the best I was going to get in the circumstances.

The revenge fantasies began that night, on the way home from work: What I really should have done was made the landlord call the snowplough operator right then and there on the phone, and force him to come and dig me out personally, as I stood and watched, arms folded imperiously ìThat teaches you!î I might even say. But the driver made some comment under his breath as I walked away, causing me to lose it, my voice got all squeaky and cracked, like a pubescent boy. Not a good fantasy.

I let my reptilian imaginings take me somewhere even darker: Up the driveway comes the plough on a dark, snowy pre-dawn day- his headlights illuminate a silhouette with a baseball bat (baseball bats figure into my revenge fantasies with great regularity, although this has absolutely no symbolic meaning.) ìHeís a crazy man!!î the driver would scream, and try to back away, but too late! Iíd smash out his headlamps and the windshield of his precious truck! I'd laugh like a maniac, and stomp in victory on the hood before he swerved away in terror. The next logical step in this fantasy was an attempted assault charge and destruction of personal property- not good.

Perhaps it would best to wreak vengeance in such a way as would protect me from any possible reciprocation. Yes, I would cripple him psychologically, and hereís how I would do it; I would find out the bar that he frequents, and then ëaccidentallyí bump into him there. Weíd strike up a conversation (perhaps Iíd even where a costume, such as such as a big handlebar mustache.) Weíd get a good rapport going, then offhandedly mention that heíd been the guy that ploughed my car in. Heíd realize that something wasnít right, but wouldn't be sure what yet. Iíd look deep in to his eyes, down in to his very soul and pull from inside him his darkest secret, and I lay it all out for him, right there, elaborating on the root source of his massive insecurities in stunningly accurate detail. Iíd reduce him a quivering mass of humiliation and regret in front of his buddies. For some reason as I imagined this the plough operator transformed into someone I went to middle school with, Sid Jones to be exact, and instead of destroying his ego, weíd laugh good naturedly about the whole thing: "I canít believe I got ploughed in by Sid Jones! Sid Jones of all people!" This fantasy suddenly stopped hitting the spot. I mean, for all I knew maybe the guy had some serious problems in his life, and I should probably be the bigger person and stop developing ridiculously elaborate revenge fantasies and instead just enjoy the CD I was listening to. Take it easy Al, itís no big deal, youíre getting yourself all worked up for nothing.

One of the most valuable things I learned in my first year of art school was that the way to come up with a creative design solution is to direct your attention to something other than the problem youíre trying to solve. As soon as I started to think even slightly compassionately about snowplough guy I knew how I should get him: First, I would watch for the name on the side of the truck or use some other tricky method to find out where he lived. Next, I would rent a snowplough and drive it to his house. I would make sure that on the day that I did this there would be lots of vehicles in his driveway. I would plow them all drive away laughing, the snowplough operator shaking his fist behind me.

I described the fantasy Iíd come up with while making dinner with Marianne, "But he owns a snowplough, heíll just be able to plough his way out." She said.

Good point." Well, then, Iíll plough everything, his front door, his house, everything!"

But she was right, it wouldnít work: ìI guess I have to just write about it in my blog then.î I said, which made me feel a little better.