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Driving adventures....
This afternoon (having gone to see GB first thing, before it got too bloody hot to ride), I was off up to Loughton.
I was very brave, and drove through the evil Rotherhithe Tunnel. As I got back into the daylight, only hyperventilating slightly, a police man waved me into a side street and asked me to park up. Eep: what did I dooooo?
Turns out they were checking insurance, in a moderately clever way: they run the plates as you go into the tunnel, and then by the time you finally emerge they've got a list of which ones have no insurance. Which we were apparently on (I suspect it may be personalised-plate-related).
"Do you have insurance, madam?" Er, well, I bloody thought we did. I rooted around in the glove box, didn't find anything that looked right, called Mike to check where the paperwork was, and then apologised for not having it.
"That's ok, madam, we can run it through out system."
(At this point, I realised that Mike was probably sitting in his office muttering "Oh, god, what has she done to need the insurance documents?" and sent him a reassuring text.
"Are you in a hurry, madam? Sorry, it's taking a long time. You're third in the queue." Well, I wasn't in a hurry but I will be now... why, were you going to let me just go if I said I was? No, didn't think so. Sigh.
Eventually, someone on the other end of a walkie-talkie read off the details, and I was on my way again.
Got up to Loughton, only five minutes late for my appointment and - glory be! - there was actually a non-disabled space in the convenient car park. Odd, it has red paint lines rather than the white ones over there. Ah well: in a rush, buy ticket, dash over the road, amuse everyone in Tony and Guy by saying "Sorry I'm late, I got stopped by the police!"
An hour and a half or so later, I headed back to the car and found... a penalty notice on it. That's odd. Double checked that, yes, I had paid for two hours. Opened up the ticket. Apparently, the red lines mean that they're reserved spaces, not for pay-and-display use. Which is not entirely obvious. Drove over to one of the (naturally) huge numbers of now-free spots and went back to look at the one I was in. And, yes, there are a couple of smudged and chipped patches of yellow paint, which I hadn't noticed in the sun. If I squinted, I could just about make out that the first letter was an "R" and that the word was the right sort of length to say "Reserved". Have taken photos. Will be appealing, I think.
Crappy journey home, most of it sitting in traffic. Still, on the plus side, I didn't get stopped by the police again....
I was very brave, and drove through the evil Rotherhithe Tunnel. As I got back into the daylight, only hyperventilating slightly, a police man waved me into a side street and asked me to park up. Eep: what did I dooooo?
Turns out they were checking insurance, in a moderately clever way: they run the plates as you go into the tunnel, and then by the time you finally emerge they've got a list of which ones have no insurance. Which we were apparently on (I suspect it may be personalised-plate-related).
"Do you have insurance, madam?" Er, well, I bloody thought we did. I rooted around in the glove box, didn't find anything that looked right, called Mike to check where the paperwork was, and then apologised for not having it.
"That's ok, madam, we can run it through out system."
(At this point, I realised that Mike was probably sitting in his office muttering "Oh, god, what has she done to need the insurance documents?" and sent him a reassuring text.
"Are you in a hurry, madam? Sorry, it's taking a long time. You're third in the queue." Well, I wasn't in a hurry but I will be now... why, were you going to let me just go if I said I was? No, didn't think so. Sigh.
Eventually, someone on the other end of a walkie-talkie read off the details, and I was on my way again.
Got up to Loughton, only five minutes late for my appointment and - glory be! - there was actually a non-disabled space in the convenient car park. Odd, it has red paint lines rather than the white ones over there. Ah well: in a rush, buy ticket, dash over the road, amuse everyone in Tony and Guy by saying "Sorry I'm late, I got stopped by the police!"
An hour and a half or so later, I headed back to the car and found... a penalty notice on it. That's odd. Double checked that, yes, I had paid for two hours. Opened up the ticket. Apparently, the red lines mean that they're reserved spaces, not for pay-and-display use. Which is not entirely obvious. Drove over to one of the (naturally) huge numbers of now-free spots and went back to look at the one I was in. And, yes, there are a couple of smudged and chipped patches of yellow paint, which I hadn't noticed in the sun. If I squinted, I could just about make out that the first letter was an "R" and that the word was the right sort of length to say "Reserved". Have taken photos. Will be appealing, I think.
Crappy journey home, most of it sitting in traffic. Still, on the plus side, I didn't get stopped by the police again....
no subject
Bin the 'fine'. If they write to you, bin the letters. If they try and phone, hang up. Eventually they'll get bored. They can't do anything without a CCJ in their favour, and they're not going to bother taking you to court.