It’s dark, it’s late, and it’s raining buckets, so I put on a quick burst of speed and and have just skipped the lights when old Policeman Plod looms out of the shadows like Harry Lime, giving me such a start that I fall off the bloody bike and graze my knee; but instead of cradling me in his arms and applying vulnerary balm what does the bastard do but he comes over all sanctimonious like, preaching on and on about safety and road discipline, disputing my avowed daltonism, and informing me that I have committed a very serious pecuniary offence - at which point I really lose my rag and smack him one . . . so that didn’t help any.