Carol’s Column

Scary ... I almost murdered a man, intentionally

Yesterday morning I almost murdered a man. Intentionally.

I was parking my car in a space where there is a parking meter and an inebriated unsolicited attendant attempted to wave me into position. I politely asked him to remove himself, which he didn't, and then proceeded to manoeuvre the car into the tight space.

He stood directly in my way. It was then that I got so angry I thought to myself - if you don't bloody well get out of the way I'm going to run you over and squash you flat.

The unsolicited parking scenario has happened to me on several occasions and usually, I feel sorry for the unofficial parking attendant and give a tip. The rationalisation is that it's just another poor person trying to make a few rands.

However, the previous day, I'd had no change and so was unable to tip the guy waving his arms attempting to usher me into the space. He'd been very abusive when I'd explained I had no change and when I returned to the car, I found a piece of rubber trim had been torn from the driver's door.

So you will understand, I was not feeling sympathetic towards this person. What is more, there was a moment when I genuinely thought it would be pleasurable to put my foot on the accelerator and bang into him. It was momentary – but I felt violent. I parked the car, shaken. Then appalled and ashamed.

Would I seriously think of hurting somebody just because he was a damned nuisance?

For years, I've driven around with peanut butter sandwiches, apples or biscuits in my car so that when I stop at a traffic light and street children approach, instead of giving them money, I give food. I used to offer to drive them to a place of shelter, and only once, did a small boy want to be taken.

That was until about three months ago when I stopped my car, opened the window in the customary way and was about to pass the youngster an apple, when he snatched at my sunglasses.

Luckily, I grabbed them too and was quicker than he was. He ran off and I seethed. Little bastard I thought. So now, when I approach a traffic light and I see beggars, I shut my windows tight, lock the door and stare straight ahead.

A few weeks ago, in the suburb where I live, a woman was murdered in her house. It's part of the urban culture that whenever I'm home during the day, which is only on weekends, the doorbell rings and somebody stands outside wanting: "A job. Any old clothes. A glass of water. Something to eat. Bus fare to get home."

In the past, I've always had verbal contact - even if it's just to say no - and I've always given somebody who needs it, something to drink. No longer. I peer from behind my blind and if I see it's a stranger, I don't respond.

Travelling to work the other morning, I saw a man lying at the side of the road. Was he hurt? Had he been knocked over by a car? Or was he just a homeless person sleeping?

Before, as a matter of course, I would have stopped the car, climbed out and, if necessary, taken him to hospital. I continued driving. When I returned home, he was no longer there.

Coincidentally, that evening, there was a report in the paper about an elderly man called Benson who'd collapsed on the station concourse.

An ambulance had been called for but it didn't arrive until six hours later. Meanwhile, Benson died.

It appalled me that nobody had thought to take Benson to a hospital and then I wondered what I would have done. The reality is I would have walked past.

I don't like what I've become. I don't like who I am. Selfish, frightened, paranoid, suspicious and uncaring.

A diminished person.

■