You would have thought we were going to have enough excitement for one evening. We were on our way to a proper dance tonight, the sort where couples of an older age bracket and one or two baby boomers tango and waltz the night away. The idea was to introduce Himself to the concept of aerobic exercise, give Magpie the chance to learn to move elegantly, and to spend the evening doing something other than arguing in front of the fire.
But oh no, the policeman had other ideas. He made the outing just that little bit more exciting; the type of exciting that had Himself champing at the bit and Magpie filing a complaint with Cumbria Constabulary’s HQ.
There appeared to have been an accident on the A685 on the way into Kirkby tonight. Two cars, quite far apart, round a sharpish bend and police cars either side and in between. The queue of traffic was impatient, several people turning round and driving back up the road, but it was moving, if slowly. The cars didn’t seem to be very damaged.
On our way back out, the queues seemed to have disappeared and as we rounded the bend, lights blazed over two pickup lorries with the cars loaded. The road was clear, so we drove on, and a light appeared – I don’t think I registered it until it shone so brightly into our windscreen that we couldn’t see anything at all. Himself asked why that idiot was driving towards us twice, when I realised it was a person with a torch and shouted at him to stop.
The policeman who had been walking towards us, doubtless in fear for his life at one moment, snatched open the driver’s door and yelled at Himself from a foot away. He demanded to know things like why we weren’t paying attention to what was going on and why didn’t Himself speak, instead of just staring. Then he wanted to know what Himself had taken, even lowering his voice once to ask me. He asked and said everything twice, even when he told Himself to put his seatbelt on.
Then he slammed the door shut. Himself said to look for his number, so we both leaned forwards to look at his arm. He saw us look, grabbed open the door again and screamed “Don’t start any trouble, don’t start any trouble, we’ll lock you up, we’ll lock you up!”
Himself spoke only to say “yep, okay, fine,” and the police officer took the hint, blared out one more thing which I can no longer remember, and slammed the door. We drove on. Himself uttered the first indignance. “He slammed the door, why would you do that? Why would you slam the door?”
I asked my dad’s advice as we drove, now late, to our dance and he was very sensible. He advised me to telephone the HQ, speak to the Duty Inspector, explain the story and ask for it to be logged on the computer. He said the last thing we wanted was that traffic officer to spend the next 6 months following Himself up hill and down dale.
So tomorrow morning, I’m waiting for the officer’s Inspector to phone me back.Turns out the ‘accident’ was probably connected to a rumoured police chase during a series of drugs raids, though everything is very shady.
And the dance? It was of course, sweet, fun, good to learn something new, had the dubious joy of being held too closely by a man older than my father – Himself got the man’s wife – and breaktime consisted of a cup of tea and a biscuit. Himself sweated profusely at the unexpected effort and I actually enjoyed the gentle dancing.
Supper was welsh rarebit on naan bread with a cuter side salad than what is shown in the picture.
Grill one side of the bread.
Take 2 eggs, beaten lightly and fill up their viscous liquid with grated cheese (sharp cheddar is best) until thick and gloopy.
Spread it onto the untoasted side of the bread and put it under the grill. Toast until the cheese is mottled and eat by itself, or with beans, or with tomato ketchup and a side salad with onions (very important).