What Me and Eric Roozendal have in common. The Finale.

Ok, where were we? HERE. Eric and I are both really crap at paperwork when it comes to cars.

Constable Paul eventually alighted from his car carrying Mr. Woog’s licence.

“Got your contacts in?” He asked. 

Mr Woog assured him that his sunglasses were prescription.

“Are you sure?………” Constable Paul again, this time with a slight head tilt, one eyebrow raised.

In my head, I said….

“Of course he is fucking sure! He is as blind as a friggin bat you nasty bastard. Now shave off that beard for fuck’s sake. It does not suit you and you look like you could do with a wash…… “

But I didn’t. Instead I burst into uncontrollable tears.

I think it is a universal rule that men do not deal well with a sobbing woman. He backed off. He went on his way, leaving us in the car park of a dodgy looking RSL Club, warning us that if we drove the car another foot, he would book the bajeezus out of us.

Now that we had gotten rid of that problem, the next one was fairly evident. We where stuck an hour and a half from home. 

This type of scenario would normally bring out the worst in us as a couple, but for some reason, the intimidating tactics displayed by Paul united us. We came up with half a dozen different plans, each one more complicated than the last. The trains were not running due to track work. The sun was beginning to lower and the kids were beginning to crack the shits.

We threw some non-existent money at the problem.**

Sonia Kluger was given the Royal Treatment, coming home on the back of a tow-truck while the boys and myself came back to Sydney with Des, the friendliest, nicest cabbie you ever could meet.

As our unusual convoy made it’s way up the hill, we passed Constable Paul* sitting on the bonnet of his big boy car. He was waiting to see if we had decided to “risk it” and drive home. I was sitting next to Des when Paul and my eyes met. I shot him a look and I think I saw him recoil a bit. 

It is a look that I only reserve for very VERY special occasions, like this one HERE.

Des and I chatted all the way back to Sydney. He was a kind, considered type of fellow and I enjoyed our chat enormously. By the time I reached the house, Harry wanted to go back with Des. But we bade him farewell and walked into the house.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack came to me in tears. Turned out that he had left his special “Blankie”in the back of the cab. I had the foresight to take Des’s number so I texted him, saying if he could hang onto it, I would make arrangements to collect it from him when next we were up that way.

Twenty minutes later, Des knocked on the door with Jack’s purple Blankie in his hand. He said “A boy needs his blankie.” and held it out to Jack. Des refused some extra money, but I insisted we shouted him a steak and a beer for dinner and pushed some cash into his hand.

And so the story goes, that for every Constable Paul in the world, there is a Des. 

The End.

*I know he was doing his job.
** Ended up not being a cheap weekend.


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  • Meggsie

    Thank heavens for Des. And as for Constable Paul there are many ways you can do your job and do it well without displaying the sort of authoritarian air he did. Glad you made it home

    • http://www.blogger.com/profile/14534446095892777452 Karen on Speed Bump Ahead

      What a lovely way to put that! All I can think is what a dick. (Sorry about the language but I can’t think of any suitable alternative) My husband would be a colleague (although I doubt they have met) of Sir Paul and would agree with me. Mrs Woog you have written this so well!