Park 'n' ride the insults

'Haven't you got owt better to bl***y do?" Stephen Young is fixing a parking ticket to the window of a silver Toyota parked on double yellow lines at the entrance to Beaconsfield Street in Acomb when the belligerent voice interrupts him.

It belongs to a man watching from the pavement opposite. Stephen ignores him.

"Crime busters!" says the man loudly. Then he appeals to other onlookers. "Hey up! There's bl***y crime-busters in the street! It's no wonder the crime rate in York is going down!"

It's not even his car. As Stephen is noting down the final few details, a young woman appears.

She pretends to look surprised, but then obviously decides against protest. "Oh, all right," she says, collecting the parking ticket from the window. "I'm sorry."

Stephen, one of 28 parking attendants with City of York Council who now patrol public streets as well as car parks, is used to the abuse and hostility. It's all part of the job.

"I just kept my mouth shut," he says. "Just let it ride. That's the only way: don't react. They were making the comments, not me. I'm here to do a job. If they can't accept that, then that's down to them."

I get the impression it would take a lot to upset Stephen. At 49 he's a large, capable, slow-moving man: a veteran of 22 years as a marine engineer in the Royal Navy who saw service in the Falklands War.

It will take more than a bit of bad-mouthing to get to him.

He says he's not worried about doing one of the most unpopular jobs in York. On the front of his 'Cassio' - the automated, hand-held gadget he uses to take down the details of illegally parked cars and issue tickets - there a sticker of a little, happy smiling face.

He holds it up as though reading it, so the back faces me - and there's another one there. One for him, one for the offending motorist. It's not regulation issue, he admits: but it sums up his attitude to the job.

"I enjoy it," he says. "To me it's the best job in the world. I'm not cooped up in an office, I'm out of doors, getting fresh air and exercise, I'm meeting different people all the time, and I'm being a help to the public."

I join Stephen at 8am on a busy weekday morning, just in time for the 'school run'.

After the bad press traffic wardens have been getting recently - including one parking attendant's van photographed parked on double yellow lines - it seems only fair to paint the other side of the picture. A traffic warden's job is, after all, a vital one. They may be the people we most love to hate - but without them our streets would pretty soon be clogged up.

First we drove to The Avenue in Clifton Green. Both sides of the road are lined with the cars of parents dropping their children off at school: leaving just a narrow central avenue to drive through. We find a gap in a residents parking bay where non-residents are allowed a 60 minute wait. It's one of the few spaces left. Just ahead a dark bottle-green Range Rover is parked on double yellow lines.

Stephen begins logging the details carefully into his Cassio preparatory to issuing a ticket: make, model, colour, registration number, tax disc expiry date, and exactly where it is parked. A man walks up and appears to hesitate.

"Is this yours, sir?" Stephen asks.

"It definitely is not," the man says. He moves on, throwing back over his shoulder a parting shot. "Pity you haven't something better to do."

Just as Stephen's about to issue a ticket, a woman hurries up. "I've come from Wetherby," she apologises breathlessly. "There was nowhere else I could stop!"

Stephen gives her a stern look, but relents. We move on.

For the next 45 minutes we walk up and down The Avenue and other streets nearby, logging details of all the cars parked without permits in residents parking bays.

In most cases they're allowed a ten-minute wait: in some areas, an hour. Stephen will need to check them all again once their time is up: and if they're still there, he will issue a ticket.

By the time we retrace out steps, all the cars have gone. The 'school run' is over - and the road is free again.

I ask him if he's disappointed we haven't managed to book anyone. No, he insists. Issuing a ticket is a 'necessary evil'.

"I'm here to do a job," he reminds me. "You saw the traffic there was. If we hadn't been there, there would have been a problem. Because people saw us, it made things so much better.

"The motorists are happy, because they haven't got a fine. The residents are happy, because they can park. And I'm happy."

Next stop is St Peter's Grove, just the other side of the A19. By this time, Stephen estimates we've walked several miles: even though we came from the parking attendants' depot in Foss Bank by van.

As we walk down the street, a woman approaches us.

"Are you going to get the white Volvo?" she asks us. "It's been here for months, day in, day out. I pay to park here, and it's been here for months on a one-day permit, rubbed out and filled in again. I know you're busy, but it does begin to grate after a while."

Stephen reassures her: and sure enough, a few yards further along, there the car is - a 'scratchcard' permit that's obviously been used again and again in the window.

It's in a 60-minute bay, which means Stephen can't issue a ticket there and then: he logs the details in his Cassio so we can come back later.

Around the corner, in Grosvenor Road, we hit paydirt. A clapped-out Ford Fiesta parked squarely on double yellows - and without even a tax disc.

Stephen issues a ticket, and sticks it to the windscreen. As he does so, a young man comes up.

"I've just bought it for spare parts" he says. "It's going to be towed away in about half an hour."

"Well, it will have a ticket on it."

"I'm not bothered," the young man says, and walks off again.

Nearby, a second car, a white cavalier, is parked untidily across two spaces in a residents parking area. It's empty, unlocked, and the drivers side window is wound down.

Peering inside, Stephen notice it looks as if it's been hotwired.

He places a call on his radio to parking control: and they check with police. Moments later confirmation comes back - the vehicle has been reported stolen from Piccadilly Car Park.

Stephen closes the window and locks the doors, then reports it secure.

As we walk back up St Olave's Road, I say it's not been a bad morning's work.

"We've been lucky," he says. "We could have gone all day and not issued a thing." And was there just a hint of satisfaction in his voice? Perhaps.