I should never have let you out tonight

I am a plank, a muppet, a twit. But you knew that. It's why you love me. I'd rather you loved me for my smouldering good looks and my breathtaking wit but these days I'll take whatever's going. Laughter at me is still laughter in my direction.

Allow me to pose a question. If one was going to pick a profession from which to pluck a personage to almost kill to a pulp in one's first major driving idiotically related incident which profession should one chose? Accountancy? The performing arts? Politics? These all seem to me to be worthy candidates. How about you folks? Any pet peeves, professionally speaking?

I drop Common Law off at Connolly. I'm stopped like a sick bird. Illegally. We have just passed two traffic cops on motorcycles. CHiPs, essentially. Common Law is tangled up in her many musical cords. The 'I am unlawfully parked' stick up my ass is tickling my tonsils. We do goodbye, mwah, mwah. She's out, I signal, and put Purple Danger in gear.

I don't think I've mentioned that our car is called Purple Danger. My brother in law named it that because it's purple and I'm the only person who drives it.

I check my rear view mirror. Lights, many lights. I check my wing mirror, same gig. I look over my shoulder, nothing coming. And at this point I should probably do some more mirror checking. I don't. I pull out.

A motorbike swerves violently to miss me. Inches, folks, mere inches. You know what comes next, don't you? That's right, Officer Poncherello, his heart beating fast from his narrow brush with death, waves me over. I pull in. I have a quick cry. I have time for a lengthy cry, as Poncho is taking his time with the dismounting, the glaring and the notebook reaching, but I keep it quick. I reach for my licence.

Poncho approaches. In my slight panic and intense misery I can't help but completely fail to notice that my foot is still on the clutch and that I am still in gear. I roll down the window to greet Poncho. I take my foot off the clutch. The car leaps forward. This is not going well.

Officer Poncherello does his thing. He writes stuff down, he wanders around the car. He peers at all those bits of paper I have affixed to my windscreen. He looks at my provisional licence. The provisional licence which requires me to have a licenced driver with me at all times, even when I'm pooping. About ten minutes later he comes back to my window.

If I was him folks, I'd have whipped out the cuffs and gotten all Rodney King on my ass. I don't know why, I really don't know why, but he lets me off. Really, I still don't why. Doesn't he have a quota to fill? I've almost fucking killed him. What is he thinking? When it becomes clear that I've gotten away with it, it's all that I can to do to not attempt to tearfully embrace him through the car window.

This plank, this muppet, this twit, drives carefully to work.