Morning:
8°c
RECENTLY I found myself bitterly regretting a moment of madness in the summer. One hot Saturday I drove to Homebase to get electric fans for the children's bedrooms. The store was nearly closing and I put my foot down (the thought of them not being able to sleep was a spur). I was aware of a flash in the mirror and the result, sure enough, was three points and a fine.
Except the Met offered me a choice - take the points or attend a speed- awareness class. So last weekend I found myself in a classroom in an office block in Ealing with 18 others, listening to "Chris".
I was expecting boy racers in Top Gear jackets. Instead, we seemed to be roughly the same age and sensible - clearly, the police thought we might listen and learn.
And we did. For the first half we had a bit of a chat. None of us had revisited the Highway Code. Only one of us got all the questions right about speed limits on different types of road. We were shown a series of films of a driver travelling through the back streets of Reading and Berkshire lanes and had to click the mouse as hazards came up or when we felt the car was going too fast. That, plus questions about our lifestyles and driving habits, gave us a personal profile.
Mine was that I like to drive "slightly faster than average", I like to get "slightly closer than average" to the vehicle in front, my hazard perception is "average" as is my attention span. My "emotional feedback" score was "high", meaning I get worked up while I'm driving and I'm more likely to break the law or be responsible for accidents (I wasn't "very high", if you're wondering). I also suffer from "an excessive degree of sleepiness" and need to be more careful.
None of this was made public. It was between me and my conscience. For all I know, my classmates were goody-goodies or psychos who shouldn't have been allowed to drive home. I'd no idea how they rated. What it did do was make me focus on the second part.
Chris asked us how and where we'd been caught. Everyone answered in near-apologetic tone. Then he showed us a picture of the aftermath of a fatal accident in north London. There was no body, no blood. What we saw was a quiet suburban road, a Renault Clio that had braked suddenly, judging by the marks on the tarmac, and police taking measurements. Close up, we saw a child's scooter under the front wheels and a shoe at the rear. He was eight. The car was travelling at 39mph in a 30mph zone. If the driver had been going at 30, he would almost certainly have lived.
On the way back and coming into work today, I didn't go over 30 once.
