I’ve never been a particularly fast driver. I can’t have been, because in four decades at the wheel, driving far too many miles every year, I’ve only been nicked three times for speeding. Once was in 1985 doing 65mph in a 40mph limit on the A456 just outside Halesowen. I was in my dad’s car, wearing mirrored sunglasses, which I decided not to remove when the police officer addressed me. Idiot. (Me, not the copper.) Perhaps he saw his own irritated reflection as he issued the reprimand. I got a fine no bigger than the speed I was doing, and three richly deserved points. It should have been more.
The second time was more recently, on the Adriatic coast road in Croatia. An outstretched arm, palm facing towards me, indicated I should stop. On this occasion I removed my sunglasses; the policajac didn’t. After a brief admonishment and a spot of form-filling, his arm was outstretched again – now with his palm facing upwards, indicating I should put some cash in it. This I did. Job done.
