“I am so pissed off” said Big-J as he threw himself down onto the sofa. “would you believe I have to go on a frigging speed awareness course” he added, “and all because I was doing 37mph in a 30 mile zone. It was a trap,” he grumbled. “And I have to report to a Police station to show my license – what a waste of bloody time. I’m far too busy for all this.”
We spent the next 20 minutes or so booking the course online for which we had a privilege of paying some £90. But, we reasoned, better than 3 points on your license and a £60 fine.
Big-J spent the following week arguing with the Plod about the unfairness of having to leave his driving license with them for the requisite 6 weeks. He needed it before then as we were shortly to be renting a car overseas. He took some informal legal advice which was basically – get a life. Eventually, a way around it was found (the Police retained the license for 48 hours) without my man having to resort to the legal action he was about to threaten, whatever that may have been. Good idea, I thought, to take on the might of the Met over a housekeeping matter.
The day of the Speed Awareness course arrived amid much moaning and groaning: “I’m just too busy to spend a whole morning do this…” “I’ve been driving for over 40 years, why do I need to go on a course …?” “How long will it take me to get to Ealing,,,” “Where am I going to park?” And so on, and so on, ad naseum.
He left home at 7.45h arriving just the 45 minutes early. Glass ever half full, he called me from a local Ealing café to describe the delicious breakfast he was eating.
At around 13.00h, when the course finished, he called me from the car.
“How was it?” I asked, sympathetically.
“It was AMAZING!” he replied. “What a brilliant lecturer!" He warmed to his theme. "I can’t believe how he held our attention for four hours! I learned so much, it was fantastic! Everyone should do it. It’s shame that you can’t do it voluntarily, I thoroughly recommend it.” A total volte-face, as is so often his wont.
That was the really the last I heard of it until some days later when I next got into the car with Big-J driving. We’d been going no distance at all before he asked me, “Do you know why there are speed bumps in some roads and not in others? No? Well, I’ll tell you. They’re not allowed to put bumps on major routes where they might impede the progress of ambulances.”
“Oh, I said, "interesting. I’d never have thought of that.”
“No” he said, “well you wouldn’t, you haven’t been on a speed awareness course like me; and come on, guess how many fatalities – as a percentage of all UK road fatalities – there are on motorways every year. Go on, go on - guess.”
“It must be quite small I suppose,” I said hesitantly. “Around 20%?”
“Aah no” said my speed aware husband, “far, far less. It’s 3%” he said triumphantly, “because most fatalities are in urban areas and involve pedestrians. There aren’t a lot of pedestrians on motorways.”
We drove on a little further.
“You see that big 50 mph sign?” he said, “that’s because it’s the ‘gateway’ to the 50mph zone. The 50mph signs along the road after that are much smaller. I’ll bet you never knew that did you?”
I had to admit that this was a fact I hadn’t known until that moment.
“And...” he added, “when you see one of those white circle signs with a black diagonal line across it, what do you think that means then?”
“I think it means that you’re out of the previous speed limit zone,” I said.
“Yes, yes it does” he said excitedly, “but what speed does it mean that you can do?”
“Er, 70” I mumbled.
“That’s where you’re wrong” he smugly replied. “The maximum speed limit varies depending upon whether you’re on a motorway, a dual carriage-way or another sort of road. The national speed limit isn’t 70mph you know. You really need to know what sort of a road you’re on and what the speed limit in that area is. It’s very important.”
By now, I was getting a Walter Meldrew, One Foot in the Grave sort of headache. Visions of having to live the rest of my life against this barrage of driving information was making me feel somewhat bilious not to mention very irritated.
“I could explain to you why the urban speed limit is generally set at 30mph if you like” he said.
“On go on do, that’d be really fascinating” I replied, lacing my answer with sarcasm in an attempt to stop him in his tracks. Totally lost on him.
“OK then, it’s because when you drive at 30mph, your car is moving at 13 metres per second and the length of a bus is 13 metres - ah ha!” he exclaimed, “so what does that mean?”
“I guess that means that if you’re overtaking a bus and someone walks out in front of it, theoretically, you’ll have time to brake,” said I.
“Yes, exactly! Well done you!” he replied.
I had to think of a way of stopping this before it really took hold.
“I’d really love to hear your new Bob Dylan album, have you got it loaded?" I said.
“Really?” said Big-J, “you’re not usually that keen to listen to Bob, you usually like to chat whilst we’re in the car.”
“Yes” I said, “I usually do.”
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