Melissa Kite
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‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘You’ve not had anything to drink at all?’
‘Well, I had a glass of wine on February 9th 2001. But I doubt it would be in my system now.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
He got out his big shiny machine and made me blow into it. Zero. So he made me get out my licence. To his delight, I had an old paper one, having forgotten to send off for the new plastic card because it had only just been introduced. ‘This, here, is an offence,’ he fumed. ‘I could book you for this right now.’ But he didn’t, because even he could see that he was starting to channel Leslie Nielsen in The Naked Gun.
My latest run-in was more serious. I was on the phone. Appalling, I know. I had been waiting in all morning for a call from a friend whose business is going to the wall and he finally rang as I was waiting at a set of traffic lights. I snatched up the mobile: ‘Are you alright? I’m worried about you. You haven’t answered my messages for days. Hang on, I need to pull over.’
But as we know, there is nowhere to pull over in Britain any more. Every square inch of road is covered by cameras. So you can’t stop. Not until the siren starts flashing behind you. I wound down my window as the policeman peered in. ‘I know!’ I whined. ‘I know, I know, I know, I know…’
‘If you know, then why did you do it?’ he said.
‘Oh dear! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…’ I assumed he was going to book me, and that I would never get reasonable car insurance again. I am only just nearing a date in court with the couple who, a year ago, accused me of grievously whiplashing them in a prang on Streatham High Road.
‘Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no…’ I wailed as I thought about my next renewal quote. Possibly I would have to stop driving altogether. And then I wouldn’t be able to get to the horses. So I would have to move to Surrey and live in a derelict barn, which is all I can afford in Cobham.
I was wondering how I would heat a derelict barn as I handed over my licence and the policeman disappeared back to his van. When he returned I had concluded that you probably couldn’t heat a derelict barn and was quietly sobbing. ‘Oh no (sob) oh no (sob) oh no (sob) oh no…’
‘Right. I’ve recorded a warning and if you get stopped again it will be three points and a fine.’
‘Oh thank you!’ I cried. ‘Oh thank you, oh thank you, oh thank you, oh thank you…’
He looked at me with something I took to be pity, though it could easily have been disdain. ‘Remember how this feels and switch off your phone. This is as bad as drink driving.’
‘I know!’ I said, feeling genuine remorse at how close I had come to an insurance premium of £3,000 a year. ‘I know, I know, I know, I know…’
He handed me back my licence. ‘Don’t start that again.’
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