Missing Seat Belts and PC Plod

August 20, 2024 by Doctor Vernon Coleman

I was stationary at the traffic lights when he approached. He wasn’t quite a policeman (you don’t see many of those walking around these days) and he was a bit more than a traffic warden. I’m not totally sure what they’re called, though I’m sure they have a name; a title of some kind. They can arrest people for dropping litter or parking badly, and although I don’t think they carry guns, they are laden down with the technology that all law enforcement officers carry these days: phone, camera, bullet proof vest and more leather pouches strapped to their body than a boy scout on a camping holiday.

‘You don’t seem to be wearing your seat belt, sir,’ he said, managing to add just the right amount of official irony to the final word.

‘No,’ I agreed, for he was quite right. I’d been waiting for this to happen.

Antoinette wound down her window, since he was standing on the pavement on her side of the car. He looked in and gave me the two thousand yard stare they teach them before they graduate. Antoinette smiled and said ‘hello’ to him.

‘Would you pull up just over there please, sir,’ he said, indicating a space reserved for taxis.

I did as he asked.

He walked, very slowly and deliberately, to where I was parked and looked in through Antoinette’s open window.

‘Neither of you appears to be wearing your seat belts,’ he said. Now that he had confirmed that I was a criminal he’d dropped the ‘sir’.

‘No,’ I agreed. I started to explain that the car, being 67-years-old was built before seat belts were introduced and didn’t have them fitted.

He looked carefully at the inside of the car. ‘You don’t have any seat belts,’ he said, ignoring me.

‘No,’ I agreed. I was tempted to tell him that I was just on my way to report them stolen. But I resisted the temptation.

He had unhooked his phone from his chest and, after walking to the front of the car, had keyed in the registration number. ‘You don’t appear to have a valid road fund licence,’ he said, when he came back. He looked puzzled. He squinted at his phone. ‘Nor a valid MOT certificate.’

‘No, I agreed. The car is exempt.’

He studied his phone.

‘Exempt?’

‘Exempt,’ I agreed. ‘No MOT, no road tax, and no seat belts required.’

‘How old did you say the vehicle was?’

‘Sixty seven years,’ I told him. ‘It was made in 1957. January 1957 to be precise.’ He studied his phone a little longer. He was a slow reader. ‘Right, sir,’ he said. He seemed very disappointed and still a little confused. But I was clearly no longer a criminal. He looked down at the piece of road where we were parked. ‘You’d better move on, sir,’ he said sternly. ‘You’re parked in a space reserved for taxis.’

‘Right you are, officer,’ I said. I put the car into gear and we slid away gracefully.

This extract is taken from Vernon Coleman’s latest book `Old Man in an Old Car’. To purchase a copy please CLICK HERE