Den (dewhitton) wrote,
Den
dewhitton

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Road Raged, or Fun With Constables And Bogans.

I've been Road Raged. Just now. I'm still a bit shaken because it's so unnecessary in Dubbo. We don't have traffic to get Raged about. It takes 30 minutes to drive right through the town, rush hour lasts for 15 minutes, and if there's a traffic jamb it's because two sets of lights have gone red at the same time.

Even so: road rage.

I was driving up one of the main thouroughfares, sitting on 60kph which is the speed limit, and keeping pace with a late model, dark green Holden Commodore with three large occupants. I was in the outside lane, and he was on my right. As we came tp a roundabout, one of those two-lane, 50 metre diametre affairs with a garden in the middle, he put his foot down and took off. "Silly bugger will get booked," I thought. I was Being Good. I looked to my right, and saw that there were no cars on the roundabout. There was a white Ford Falcon approaching, but he wasn't on it. The rule here says you give way to vehicles *on* the roundabout.

This is important to remember while you read what happened next.

The Commodore charged through, I paused then followed. The car approaching from the road to the right accelerated and entered the roundabout at the same time I did. He blew his horn and flashed his lights at me, a lot. As I exited he drew level with me and glared. Then he began shouting. There wasn't much point, really, since we both had our windows up.

He flicked me the finger and glared at me. Every time I glanced his way, he was glaring at me. Bear in mind we're still driving. This all happened at 60kph. I was starting to grow worried. Would this looney follow me home?

He drew about half a car length in front, then turned to glare at me over his shoulder.

It was that moment the pedestrian lights ahead went amber. Everyone slowed down. Everyone, that is, except for Mister Angry Eyes. He was looking at me. The lights went red. Mister Angry Eyes looked forward at that moment and slammed on his brakes. SKREEEEEEE- I winced as the Falcon smacked the dark Commodore up the rear in a very loud and expensive way. -BAM! Man that had to hurt.

There's always that moment of shocked silence, isn't there? That moment after the glass and plastic has stopped falling and before people start talking, where the only sound is the hiss of a damaged radiator.

The occupants of the Commodore opened their doors, and that's when I noticed the hexagonal housing of a K-band radar transceiver mounted on the rear right-hand door. There seemed to be a lot of blue uniforms. They put on their hats - those peaked hats with a black and white checked band.

The driver was a constable, but the passenger had three chevrons. Oh dear. It's a sergeant. He turned and I saw his face. The gentleman lives across the road from me. Oh dear. He's the *senior* sergeant, and he saw me. I waved.

The Falcon occupant leapt from his car, pointed at me, and began shouting that it was *my* fault! I cut him off! I was racing him! I was dangerous! The Senior Sergeant looked at me and asked me to wait a moment. So I did. I mean, there's no point running; the bloke was my neighbour. He'd just ring my doorbell and ask why I ran. So I waited while I was blamed for many things, most of which I don't remember doing.

At that moment the third occupant of the Commodor climbed from the car. He was wearing an awful lot of Silver Braid. And badges. And his stripes had a crown over them. It was the Area Commander,* out for a drive with His Officers, and he was holding a breathalyzer. He handed it to the Sergeant, who handed it to the constable.

"Breathe into this, please sir." said the constable.

The man blew into the tube. We waited a moment, then I saw a red light appear. The constable showed the sergeant, who nodded.

The Area Commander looked at me and said "I don't think we will need your statement, sir. Good evening."

And Good evening to you too, Sir.


*Local Area Commander = Superintendant
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