I was walking down the main road near my house the other night when a police van, containing two cops, came to a halt by the curb.
My mind flashed back to a night in sleepy Redding, CT, when I was walking home from my local around midnight and had a cop pull up alongside me. His window came down.
"Excuse me, sir, are you just out for a walk?"
"Actually," I responded, "I was down at the Georgetown Saloon, and I'm walking home."
"Oh, you live near here?"
"Yes, Highland Avenue."
"How long have you lived there?"
"And what's your name?"
"And your birthdate?"
Well, I had tried to be patient, but that was about it. Instead of thanking me for not drinking and driving, this nitwit was going to grill me because not many people in Redding walk at night.
"Are you going to send me a birthday card?" I asked.
Chagrined, he answered, "Something like that."
"Officer, I haven't broken any laws. I'm heading home." I turned and walked away from him.
Was this to be a repeat scenario, here in London? Once again, the window came down. I waited for the question.
The cop nearest to me leaned to the window and said, "Excuse me, sir, can you tell us how to get to the Colindale Police Station?"
I swear, I'm not making that up.