Gentle reader,
I am a good girl. I always have been. Right through school I never had so much as a detention. My teenage rebellion was getting my ears pierced (single hole, with my parents' permission, as a reward for getting good GCSE results. But still). During my university years I moved out of home for 6 months, then promptly moved back when my housemates 1) Didn't stick to my cleaning regimens 2) Were grotty and 3) Used my good olive oil to fry chips. (Yes, I was a student who had good olive oil. Some standards have to be maintained).
Please, don't think any the worse of me. Just understand that we're all different, and that for me the few things in this life that are non-negotiable are a Harpic-Bloo toilet, good food, and a clean track-record. (If you query what relevance the first two have to the third, it's simply that they're all different aspects of my personality. Which is occasionally on the princess side. But as I said, don't judge me. We all have our crosses to bear. My princess-ship is my own...)
So - yes - the point is, that I am a law-fearing, law-abiding citizen, an all round good egg, and game as a bagel at all times (what that has to do with it is anybody's guess. But hey).
You can imagine my fear, my horror - nay, my terror, then, when recently I was pulled over by the police. The Fuzz. The Pigs (as I believe they are disparagingly termed in the UK. This is not a term I approve of, and include it only so that my readers can hear - if not experience - the cultural attitude the Brits have towards those men in uniform).
It had been one of those nights. The office Christmas party had ended at 11pm (or at least, for me it had ended then. Deciding to stay on after that time would have been foolish at best. Over-excited, over-worked, over-alcoholed colleagues in Tarzan dress up - it was Safari themed - is always going to be a situation with a definite time-limit)... My one alcohol drink had been finished by 8pm. (Yes, it's true, I'm not a big drinker. Although don't equate that with being no fun. The truth is, that when I dance sober it looks like I'm drunk anyway. I have a fairly enthusiastic personality - combine that with alcohol, and the results could be unfortunate). The first inappropriate come-on began at approximately 8:05pm (thankfully, following several years' experience of Christmas parties, I am now well-practiced at dealing with the old, "It's getting hot in here, shall we find a quiet spot outside?" routine). And following 3 hours of dancing, eating as many canapes as I could lay my mitts on, and rebuffing my many admirers (caution: I may be exaggerating the number of admirers I attracted. This is arbitrary, however. Focus on the big picture), I decided it was time to head for home.
So: to summarise.
I was driving home, sober, dressed in leopard skin (again, it was safari themed), and desperate to get home to bed.
When suddenly - I see flashing blue lights behind me. An indication that I need to pull over. A chill running up my spine. And the very certain knowledge that this is not going to be one of the more fun episodes in my life.
Winding down my window (so to speak. My car has electric window switches. But you know what I mean) with shaking hands, I am accosted - very politely, genially, almost - by the Australian Federal Police. Then followed an inspection of my licence (I actually wondered if he had laser vision, and would make it shrivel in his hand, so intense was his look), a breathalyser test, and - joy of joys - a random drugs test. Having never, ever been pulled over before, this was a whole new experience - and one I could very definitely have done without.
The drugs test took a total of 10 minutes to complete and gain the results of, and despite knowing with absolute certainty that I was clean (I just say "No!") - they were amongst the most terrifying 10 minutes of my life. Waiting for my policeman to come back, I shook like a leaf. I leafed like a shook. Oh yes - it was that bad.
So. Friends. Readers. Fans. My adoring public.
Worry not. I am not writing this from prison. I have no fear of dropping the soap in the shower. My track record remains - as always - clean as a whistle.
The Fuzz and I have parted ways, and hopefully we shall not meet again. Because let me tell you something. If I couldn't survive a university shared house, there's no way I can stay at one of Her Majesty's "special" hotels. Not until they get in good olive oil, anyway.
And so, I bid you adieu for now.
Let this be a lesson for you: don't drink and drive. Always just say no to drugs. And never move in to shared accommodation.
Love,
Belle x
I am a good girl. I always have been. Right through school I never had so much as a detention. My teenage rebellion was getting my ears pierced (single hole, with my parents' permission, as a reward for getting good GCSE results. But still). During my university years I moved out of home for 6 months, then promptly moved back when my housemates 1) Didn't stick to my cleaning regimens 2) Were grotty and 3) Used my good olive oil to fry chips. (Yes, I was a student who had good olive oil. Some standards have to be maintained).
Please, don't think any the worse of me. Just understand that we're all different, and that for me the few things in this life that are non-negotiable are a Harpic-Bloo toilet, good food, and a clean track-record. (If you query what relevance the first two have to the third, it's simply that they're all different aspects of my personality. Which is occasionally on the princess side. But as I said, don't judge me. We all have our crosses to bear. My princess-ship is my own...)
So - yes - the point is, that I am a law-fearing, law-abiding citizen, an all round good egg, and game as a bagel at all times (what that has to do with it is anybody's guess. But hey).
You can imagine my fear, my horror - nay, my terror, then, when recently I was pulled over by the police. The Fuzz. The Pigs (as I believe they are disparagingly termed in the UK. This is not a term I approve of, and include it only so that my readers can hear - if not experience - the cultural attitude the Brits have towards those men in uniform).
It had been one of those nights. The office Christmas party had ended at 11pm (or at least, for me it had ended then. Deciding to stay on after that time would have been foolish at best. Over-excited, over-worked, over-alcoholed colleagues in Tarzan dress up - it was Safari themed - is always going to be a situation with a definite time-limit)... My one alcohol drink had been finished by 8pm. (Yes, it's true, I'm not a big drinker. Although don't equate that with being no fun. The truth is, that when I dance sober it looks like I'm drunk anyway. I have a fairly enthusiastic personality - combine that with alcohol, and the results could be unfortunate). The first inappropriate come-on began at approximately 8:05pm (thankfully, following several years' experience of Christmas parties, I am now well-practiced at dealing with the old, "It's getting hot in here, shall we find a quiet spot outside?" routine). And following 3 hours of dancing, eating as many canapes as I could lay my mitts on, and rebuffing my many admirers (caution: I may be exaggerating the number of admirers I attracted. This is arbitrary, however. Focus on the big picture), I decided it was time to head for home.
So: to summarise.
I was driving home, sober, dressed in leopard skin (again, it was safari themed), and desperate to get home to bed.
When suddenly - I see flashing blue lights behind me. An indication that I need to pull over. A chill running up my spine. And the very certain knowledge that this is not going to be one of the more fun episodes in my life.
Winding down my window (so to speak. My car has electric window switches. But you know what I mean) with shaking hands, I am accosted - very politely, genially, almost - by the Australian Federal Police. Then followed an inspection of my licence (I actually wondered if he had laser vision, and would make it shrivel in his hand, so intense was his look), a breathalyser test, and - joy of joys - a random drugs test. Having never, ever been pulled over before, this was a whole new experience - and one I could very definitely have done without.
The drugs test took a total of 10 minutes to complete and gain the results of, and despite knowing with absolute certainty that I was clean (I just say "No!") - they were amongst the most terrifying 10 minutes of my life. Waiting for my policeman to come back, I shook like a leaf. I leafed like a shook. Oh yes - it was that bad.
So. Friends. Readers. Fans. My adoring public.
Worry not. I am not writing this from prison. I have no fear of dropping the soap in the shower. My track record remains - as always - clean as a whistle.
The Fuzz and I have parted ways, and hopefully we shall not meet again. Because let me tell you something. If I couldn't survive a university shared house, there's no way I can stay at one of Her Majesty's "special" hotels. Not until they get in good olive oil, anyway.
And so, I bid you adieu for now.
Let this be a lesson for you: don't drink and drive. Always just say no to drugs. And never move in to shared accommodation.
Love,
Belle x
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