First of all I must ask, that should you bump into any of the very nice policemen married into my family, would you please not let on about anything I’m about to impart to you in confidence (or I shall deny everything). I’ll admit (privately, of course) that I’ve always been a bit nervous of policemen and police cars, especially when they are following me. Yes, it does happen now and then, mostly when I’m driving in Australia; perhaps it is due the cars I am given to drive here each year. Three years back the thirty year old red Datsun, with a duck tape sticking plaster covering a rust hole on the roof, drove like a dream and was cool, cool, cool, but the police often mistook me for a boy-racer (nothing to do with the fact that the car always urged to be the first off at traffic lights). During my last two visits I was lent rather more sedate cars – hence, no police incidents – in the form of a cute red Toyota Corolla and a grown-up blue-grey Commodore. This year I have a sporty Impreza (or impresser, as I like to call it), if that means anything to you, and I might look like a boy-racer once again, but a rich one because it’s a good car apparently, according to car aficionados.
Already I’ve had a police escort half-way back to Bill’s from Gumdale Creek when I had a little mishap with a jutting piece of wood in the car park and the bumper (made of plastic) became dislodged on one side and hung down alarmingly. The police car just had to come along at the wrong time!
On another occasion I was on my way to visit a friend when I was hailed over at random, with two other cars, to have a breathalyser test. Admittedly, it could have been worse – the police officer was a handsome young New Zealander with a beaming smile… once I had wound down the black glass window and he realised I wasn’t a boy-racer, and that it was my first time.
So now I’m returning from my weekend with my friend Lorelle who lives up on the Sunshine Coast, and I am on the way back to Loganholme, having called in to see another friend, Margaret (reunited from primary school days), who lives in one of Brisbane’s north-side suburbs. Everyone from the south-side will understand and agree with me when I say that the north-side is somewhat alien; all the roads look the same and they’re all packed, plastic bumper to plastic bumper (sometimes hanging off), with cars, many of which are driven by south-side passers-through who aren’t sure where they are going because it’s all so very alien. I’m relying on my Sat Nav to get me on to the M1 motorway but recent experience tells me that Sat Nav is not to be trusted or relied on – “Karen”, my Aussie Sat Navigator, often fails to inform me of the turn ahead in time to allow me to get into lane, and it is even worse when you’re in thick traffic on the north-side.
I am coming up to traffic lights and I’m in the middle lane, which has a arrow pointing to the right; there is a sign pointing in the same direction – it says “Brisbane Arterial Road” – Karen hasn’t said anything. Once at the lights, and committed to the wrong lane, I see in the distance another sign for “Brisbane M1” and I reckon that is the road I want. I open my window on the passenger side and I gesticulate to the driver next to me – it is a lady and I hope that she will be as generous as her male counterparts usually are, and let me in ahead of her. Hooray! She is a good egg and I am on my way in the correct lane.
Oh no? Is that a police car behind me? Did he see my little illegal lane change a few moments ago? I am driving ultra carefully now – better keep slightly below sixty to let him see that I can be good, even in a sporty car like the Impreza (I hope he will be impressed!). Karen tells me there is a school zone ahead – better go below forty. Crikey that police car is getting close. Is he going to pull me over? He’s almost tail-gating me – he seems to want me to go faster. I’m not falling for that – he’ll book me. Hold on, what does it say on the bonnet? Do police cars even have printing on their bonnets? Good Lord! He has overtaken me from the left using the bus lane.Oh… it’s just an irate taxi driver… Phew!
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