Pulled over by the Gardí last night - (J)ustice how are ya!

I went into the city last night to a poetry reading. I wasn't drinking - heck, I wasn't even having my cranberry juices straight, I was mixing them with water. My boyfriend was with me, enjoying the poetry and a few pints.

     Around 11pm we decided it was time to hit for home. I've posted before about learning to drive. That was three years ago - although some of you thought it was more recent, from the fact I'm still talking about it! Much of my time learning to drive was spent with my right foot shaking over the accelerator at stop signs, dreading having to start again. But I manage fine now, although since most of my driving has been done in the country, I am very much a country driver. I boot along narrow roads and boreens. With city driving I can get anxious. I hate changing lanes. I become glued to the spot, looking in every direction to make sure the way is clear: left shoulder, left mirror, rearview, repeat and repeat. It alwasy feels like I'm  just 'chancing it' and my hesitancy throws all the other drivers. Night driving can feel a little easier as there is less traffic, but on the flip side cars tend to go faster and I find it even more difficult to judge when to make my move.
      So, we are driving along out of the city on the dual carriageway. Somehow, I've got myself into the fast lane. I know I need to be in the slow one. I indicate. I see a car. I change my mind. I let him pass me in the slow lane, then indicate again only to see a white van coming up behind. 'Nasty white van' I say to my boyfriend. "A nasty van" he agrees. Again I hesitate, thinking I'll let him pass me in the slow lane. The van thoughtfully moves into the fast lane behind me. I swing into the empty left lane, and it swings back left again. Then I see the markings on it. 'It’s a garda van,' says I . 'Even nastier' says himself.

in

'I bet you they'll pull me over for erratic driving,' says I .

The words were hardly out of my mouth when their blue lights started flashing. I looked over to my boyfriend. Does that mean pull over? We decided it must. I felt like I was in an action movie - pulled over by the Guards for suspicous behaviour. I indicated and pulled in.

      I lowered my window and poked my head out - 'Did I do something wrong?'
     'Your nearly chopped the nose off that Fiesta.’
      I couldn’t remember any Fiesta.  At this point another garda was circling the front of the car checking my NCT, insurance and tax. 'And you were weaving across the road. We were wondering if you'd been drinking?'
      When in such a situation, I believe it is best to drop all weapons and put your hands up. I assured him I hadn't had a drop and when asked if I 'd a full license, which I couldn’t produce, assured him I’d drop it into a garda station in the morning. After drunk driver, their second theory about me was that I was a learner. So I began to tell him the story of how I passed my driving test first time in Cahir, the driving test centre with the highest pass rate in the country, and that they'd closed it the week after because they were passing even the grannies who were on their fifth attempt.
      "You’d want to come up and sit it in Cork" the Guard laughed, "we do a proper driving test down here!' He then warned me to find room for my driving license somwhere in my handbag with my hairbrushes and make-up (he had three sisters and knew all about women and their handbags).
    Assured that whatever about my spatial awarness, I certainly wasn't drunk, he wrapped things up. He pointed at the fast lane, warned me not to go into it, and told me not to be nervous taking off as he'd keep his blue lights flashing behind me so nobody could come and do me any harm.
      So I started up, my little black micra bathed in the protective blue light of a Garda escort.