Discussion
t. I knew I should've have bothered reading it.
Timotei said:
A wee tale of my adventures ... written many years ago in my more reckless youth.
TOO FAST
Driving home on the A3, which is a nice, fast, relatively traffic-free stretch of 3-lane motorway that I drive on every day to work and back.
Pootling along in traffic at about 80 as usual, my mind filled with nothing of consequence. Out in the farside lane, there's a shiny, newly-registered MX-5 a little way in front of me, who pulls into the middle lane when that becomes clear. Have another car following a little way behind me which looks like a Subaru WRX estate thingy, but it's dark, so hard to tell.
I accelerate to get past the MX-5 so that I too can pull into the middle lane and let the WRX estate thingy behind past. As I pull into the middle lane ready to slow down again, the car behind follows suit and pulls into the middle lane behind me.
Next thing I know, my mirrors are filled with urgent, pulsatingly bright blue lights. "SHIIIT" I utter under my breath. "It's the BiB".
I indicate left and am about to pull onto the hard shoulder, thinking, "great, here comes 3 points", but I spot that there is a junction coming right up about 200 hundred yards off. A thought occurs to me at that moment about all the grisly stories of accidents involving stationary cars on the hard shoulder, so I keep the indicator on, don't pull onto the hard shoulder but come off at the junction and stop a little way down the slip road. I pat myself on the back thinking I'll have gained some kudos with the boys in blue for my foresight and safe thinking, and maybe I'll have mitigated a little of the trouble about to come my way.
Big Volvo T-5 Traffic Car pulls up behind (how the heck I mistook that for a WRX estate thingy I'll never know) and Mr Stroppy Copper comes over to my window;
"You have a total inability to pull onto the hard shoulder" he barks at me, "now take a left turn at the roundabout at the bottom of the slip and pull into the car park on the left". So much for my thoughts on taking the safer option and creating a good impression.
Chastened, I humbly trundle down the slip road and take a left at the roundabout, ready to pull into this car park which is supposedly on the left. Only there isn't a car park on the left. So I carry on down this increasingly windy country road, frantically searching around, thinking I should stop but I've been specifically instructed to pull into a car park.
After about a mile of this, with tendrils of panic seeping deeper into my addled mind thinking that Mr Stroppy Copper is going to be even more narked off with me for missing this phantom car park of his, the traffic car following flashes me and indicates left at a side road coming up. I dutifully indicate left and pull off down the side road, and slowly come to a stop, awaiting my impending doom from Mr Stroppy Copper and His Penalty Points of Wrath.
I get out and stand by my car. Mr Stroppy Copper strolls over and towers above me.
"Know why I stopped you do you?" he asks curtly.
"Speeding" I reply meekly, wondering vaguely why he is mixing up the words in his sentence like Yoda.
"Know what speed you were doing do you?" he returns in the same perplexing manner.
"About 90" I mumble, as I remembered I must have accelerated a little while overtaking the MX-5.
"About 90" he repeats.
I'm not sure if this is a question or not, but I figure I'm in enough trouble so keep my trap shut.
"Follow me" he says, and motions to his traffic car.
He gets into the front seat of the Volvo Traffic car and I stand by the open door. Mr Stroppy Copper #2 in the passenger seat grunts unintelligebly at me while checking the details of my registration plate on the radio to Stroppy Copper HQ.
There's a clear, crisp LCD screen on the centre console which Mr Stroppy Copper #1 starts fiddling with.
"Lets see about that shall we?" he asks.
I squint and look in at the LCD screen. It shows a video replay of the rear-end of my car, a little way in the distance ahead. There's a 'handy' little speed indicator on the bottom right of the screen which is showing about 81 or 82 mph. Evidence. SHIIT. I can just about make out the shape of the MX-5 in the distance pull into the middle lane. Then I see the speed indicator rise as I overtake, and the traffic car picks up pace correspondingly with me, clear as day, up to 84, 85, 86, and to my alarm, keep on going. And going.
I must have had a look of horror on my face as Mr Stroppy Copper #1 glances at me and I see a small, satisfactory smile manifest itself on his otherwise emotion-less face. The speed indicator on the treacherous little LCD screen keeps on climbing, betraying my every action; 92, 93, 94, 95, ever upward. By this time I'm beyond alarm and entering the realms of utter horror. Thoughts of hundreds of penalty points, instant bans, court appearances, angry juries baying for my blood, million-pound fines, life sentences, crucifiction and worse flash through my terrified brain.
The speed indicator climbs to 96, then finally 97, and thankfully, mercifully, goes no further. By this time I'm ready to confess to the killing of JFK, anyone, anything, I did it, it was meeeeeeeeeee.
I'm about to drop to my knees and hold my wrists out and wail; "Take me away, I'm guilty, you got me" but Mr Stroppy Copper #1 stops the replay, gets out and stands next to me before I can do so. He says to me matter-of-factly;
"Too fast".
Well, DUH, I think.
"Yes" I reply quietly, utterly beaten, awaiting my death sentence. "I know"
"Have you got your licence with you?" he asks, not so stroppy now, knowing the prey has fallen, the deed done, the evidence incontrovertible.
"Yes" I reply, and hand it over reluctantly, thinking it will be the last time I ever see it.
He produces a form and takes some details down.
At this point I'm standing next to him, shaking, having a minute to collect my thoughts, which gives realisation a chance to really hit home; I need my car.
I drive out 30 miles to work every day, then back again. My office is out in the Berkshire countryside. There is no public transport. How will I get to work? How will my employers react to a court conviction and driving ban? I have a mortgage, bills to pay, responsibilities. This can't happen to me.
Mr Not-So-Stroppy Copper finishes his scribbling and once again towers over me, seeming to read my thoughts.
"Your licence important to you is it"?
Still talking like Yoda I see, but his question hits the mark.
"Yes, very" I reply honestly, "I need my car to get to work"
He pauses for a second or two.
"Two things I can do with you here" he says, and I shut my eyes, waiting for the axe to fall.
"I can either offer you an education, or give you a fixed penalty notice, what would you prefer?"
I open my eyes, amazed to still be alive, and say all-too-eagerly;
"An education? What's that?"
"I show you a couple of pictures, tell you about the dangers of speeding, and let you on your way"
The relief that washes over me is overwhelming.
"I'll take the education option" I say hurriedly, thinking he's really just having me on and the insta-ban or court-appearance or crucifiction is waiting ...
He presents a folder and flicks through some photos, stopping on one grisly picture showing an old Vauxhall Cavalier that had gone straight into the back of an artic. The entire roof was severed from the Cavalier as it had gone under the back of the trailer.
"Too fast" Mr Copper says, again pointing out the bleeding obvious.
Well, DUH, I think again, but just say; "yes, that looks awful".
"Double decapitation" he says. I gasp. This shocks me. It really does.
I take pause and look a little closer at the car in the photo. It's really just an everyday old Vauxhall Cavalier. Dark Blue. Ordinary. Smashed to bits. I think about who was in it, who these two people were that were killed in such horrific circumstances, what their names were, what they were doing that day, where they were going, whether they had children? Their lives taken from them in an instant. Such horror is unimaginable. I shudder.
"Too fast." he says quitely. "Slow down". But I hardly hear him over the deafening noise of my imagination.
Mr Copper hands over my licence and says;
"Take care".
I praise him to heaven.
I get back into my car and trundle back home on the motorway, my licence free of penalty points, my mind filled with thoughts of death, my eyes glued to the speedo showing 70mph.
Cars cruise past me; Mercedes, Fords, BMWs, Vauxhalls, Jaguars, Peugeots, doing 80, 90 and beyond.
"Too fast" I think to myself.
Did he have any pictures of modern cars that have disintegrated and killed everyone inside in a time where trucks all have t bars to stop this happening and side rails to stop you going underneath?TOO FAST
Driving home on the A3, which is a nice, fast, relatively traffic-free stretch of 3-lane motorway that I drive on every day to work and back.
Pootling along in traffic at about 80 as usual, my mind filled with nothing of consequence. Out in the farside lane, there's a shiny, newly-registered MX-5 a little way in front of me, who pulls into the middle lane when that becomes clear. Have another car following a little way behind me which looks like a Subaru WRX estate thingy, but it's dark, so hard to tell.
I accelerate to get past the MX-5 so that I too can pull into the middle lane and let the WRX estate thingy behind past. As I pull into the middle lane ready to slow down again, the car behind follows suit and pulls into the middle lane behind me.
Next thing I know, my mirrors are filled with urgent, pulsatingly bright blue lights. "SHIIIT" I utter under my breath. "It's the BiB".
I indicate left and am about to pull onto the hard shoulder, thinking, "great, here comes 3 points", but I spot that there is a junction coming right up about 200 hundred yards off. A thought occurs to me at that moment about all the grisly stories of accidents involving stationary cars on the hard shoulder, so I keep the indicator on, don't pull onto the hard shoulder but come off at the junction and stop a little way down the slip road. I pat myself on the back thinking I'll have gained some kudos with the boys in blue for my foresight and safe thinking, and maybe I'll have mitigated a little of the trouble about to come my way.
Big Volvo T-5 Traffic Car pulls up behind (how the heck I mistook that for a WRX estate thingy I'll never know) and Mr Stroppy Copper comes over to my window;
"You have a total inability to pull onto the hard shoulder" he barks at me, "now take a left turn at the roundabout at the bottom of the slip and pull into the car park on the left". So much for my thoughts on taking the safer option and creating a good impression.
Chastened, I humbly trundle down the slip road and take a left at the roundabout, ready to pull into this car park which is supposedly on the left. Only there isn't a car park on the left. So I carry on down this increasingly windy country road, frantically searching around, thinking I should stop but I've been specifically instructed to pull into a car park.
After about a mile of this, with tendrils of panic seeping deeper into my addled mind thinking that Mr Stroppy Copper is going to be even more narked off with me for missing this phantom car park of his, the traffic car following flashes me and indicates left at a side road coming up. I dutifully indicate left and pull off down the side road, and slowly come to a stop, awaiting my impending doom from Mr Stroppy Copper and His Penalty Points of Wrath.
I get out and stand by my car. Mr Stroppy Copper strolls over and towers above me.
"Know why I stopped you do you?" he asks curtly.
"Speeding" I reply meekly, wondering vaguely why he is mixing up the words in his sentence like Yoda.
"Know what speed you were doing do you?" he returns in the same perplexing manner.
"About 90" I mumble, as I remembered I must have accelerated a little while overtaking the MX-5.
"About 90" he repeats.
I'm not sure if this is a question or not, but I figure I'm in enough trouble so keep my trap shut.
"Follow me" he says, and motions to his traffic car.
He gets into the front seat of the Volvo Traffic car and I stand by the open door. Mr Stroppy Copper #2 in the passenger seat grunts unintelligebly at me while checking the details of my registration plate on the radio to Stroppy Copper HQ.
There's a clear, crisp LCD screen on the centre console which Mr Stroppy Copper #1 starts fiddling with.
"Lets see about that shall we?" he asks.
I squint and look in at the LCD screen. It shows a video replay of the rear-end of my car, a little way in the distance ahead. There's a 'handy' little speed indicator on the bottom right of the screen which is showing about 81 or 82 mph. Evidence. SHIIT. I can just about make out the shape of the MX-5 in the distance pull into the middle lane. Then I see the speed indicator rise as I overtake, and the traffic car picks up pace correspondingly with me, clear as day, up to 84, 85, 86, and to my alarm, keep on going. And going.
I must have had a look of horror on my face as Mr Stroppy Copper #1 glances at me and I see a small, satisfactory smile manifest itself on his otherwise emotion-less face. The speed indicator on the treacherous little LCD screen keeps on climbing, betraying my every action; 92, 93, 94, 95, ever upward. By this time I'm beyond alarm and entering the realms of utter horror. Thoughts of hundreds of penalty points, instant bans, court appearances, angry juries baying for my blood, million-pound fines, life sentences, crucifiction and worse flash through my terrified brain.
The speed indicator climbs to 96, then finally 97, and thankfully, mercifully, goes no further. By this time I'm ready to confess to the killing of JFK, anyone, anything, I did it, it was meeeeeeeeeee.
I'm about to drop to my knees and hold my wrists out and wail; "Take me away, I'm guilty, you got me" but Mr Stroppy Copper #1 stops the replay, gets out and stands next to me before I can do so. He says to me matter-of-factly;
"Too fast".
Well, DUH, I think.
"Yes" I reply quietly, utterly beaten, awaiting my death sentence. "I know"
"Have you got your licence with you?" he asks, not so stroppy now, knowing the prey has fallen, the deed done, the evidence incontrovertible.
"Yes" I reply, and hand it over reluctantly, thinking it will be the last time I ever see it.
He produces a form and takes some details down.
At this point I'm standing next to him, shaking, having a minute to collect my thoughts, which gives realisation a chance to really hit home; I need my car.
I drive out 30 miles to work every day, then back again. My office is out in the Berkshire countryside. There is no public transport. How will I get to work? How will my employers react to a court conviction and driving ban? I have a mortgage, bills to pay, responsibilities. This can't happen to me.
Mr Not-So-Stroppy Copper finishes his scribbling and once again towers over me, seeming to read my thoughts.
"Your licence important to you is it"?
Still talking like Yoda I see, but his question hits the mark.
"Yes, very" I reply honestly, "I need my car to get to work"
He pauses for a second or two.
"Two things I can do with you here" he says, and I shut my eyes, waiting for the axe to fall.
"I can either offer you an education, or give you a fixed penalty notice, what would you prefer?"
I open my eyes, amazed to still be alive, and say all-too-eagerly;
"An education? What's that?"
"I show you a couple of pictures, tell you about the dangers of speeding, and let you on your way"
The relief that washes over me is overwhelming.
"I'll take the education option" I say hurriedly, thinking he's really just having me on and the insta-ban or court-appearance or crucifiction is waiting ...
He presents a folder and flicks through some photos, stopping on one grisly picture showing an old Vauxhall Cavalier that had gone straight into the back of an artic. The entire roof was severed from the Cavalier as it had gone under the back of the trailer.
"Too fast" Mr Copper says, again pointing out the bleeding obvious.
Well, DUH, I think again, but just say; "yes, that looks awful".
"Double decapitation" he says. I gasp. This shocks me. It really does.
I take pause and look a little closer at the car in the photo. It's really just an everyday old Vauxhall Cavalier. Dark Blue. Ordinary. Smashed to bits. I think about who was in it, who these two people were that were killed in such horrific circumstances, what their names were, what they were doing that day, where they were going, whether they had children? Their lives taken from them in an instant. Such horror is unimaginable. I shudder.
"Too fast." he says quitely. "Slow down". But I hardly hear him over the deafening noise of my imagination.
Mr Copper hands over my licence and says;
"Take care".
I praise him to heaven.
I get back into my car and trundle back home on the motorway, my licence free of penalty points, my mind filled with thoughts of death, my eyes glued to the speedo showing 70mph.
Cars cruise past me; Mercedes, Fords, BMWs, Vauxhalls, Jaguars, Peugeots, doing 80, 90 and beyond.
"Too fast" I think to myself.
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