The police car was half-hidden by the side of the overgrown lane. I instinctively leaned back, drew my seatbelt across and pulled out of the farm. The police car rolled forward to the middle of the road and stopped. Mr B and I looked at each other and frowned. Two officers climbed out and walked slowly towards us. As the first one approached my open window, his stubble caught the last of the sunlight, sinister he seemed, older and maybe that was a gleam of the unbalanced mind, maybe liquored, certainly weary. My eye fell to his partner’s gun, dull blunt metal hanging in its leather holster.
– Where are you coming from?
– The farm.
– Which farm? This road is forbidden for through traffic.
– The farm on this road, Jacob Catsway.
– On this road?
– We just pulled out behind you. We have to use this road to access our home.
– By the way, your right brake light is not working.
– … uhhh …
– And make sure you’re clean shaven the next time I see you. You’re a bloody disgrace to the uniform, babylon beasty bwoy!
That said, off we sped, to pick up Joolz and the Samster from the creche.
Four sprogs, five house moves in one year … is it any wonder I can’t tell up from down?