
I'm a hard man. I'm dangerous. I'm wanted by the police. Sort of.
I was cycling to the neighbouring town of Vincennes this morning and, to avoid a maze of one-way streets, I rode for a while on the pavements. Very slowly, always stopping if there was a pedestrian.
I went to three newsagents before finding a Daily Telegraph. I can't remember the last time I bought an English daily newspaper but fancied getting one today as my Internet connection is playing up and I couldn't get online.
I was riding home, on the road, when I saw two women police officers talking to an old lady. The old lady then points at me! What? One of the officers hurries over to me and informs me that I've been seen riding my bicycle on the pavement, which is an infringement of the civil code of Vincennes or something like that.
The officer is rather cute and has a lovely smile. I beam back at her and apologise. I don't bother to explain I was barely cycling, just floating along at a pedestrian pace; I was hardly zooming along at a Tour de France speed.
The officer said that the fine for cycling on the pavement was 45 euros (or $68, or £40, or 71 Canadian dollars, or 74 Australian dollars, or 94 New Zealand dollars, or 8,295 Icelandic kronur, or 5 Dumdad doubloons), but on this occasion she was just going to give me a verbal warning. But next time . . . I thanked her and she strode off then stopped, turned and said knowingly, "I know you." Crikey.
What was interesting was that I wasn't caught by the police this time but, 10 minutes or so after the crime, I had been grassed up by a fat ugly old bag who has nothing better to do than tell tales on a virtually law-abiding citizen. (No wonder the Jews didn't stand a chance in wartime Paris!)
Still, I suppose I'd better be careful next time I sweep into Vincennes and be on my best behaviour. Although the thought of being taken to the station and frisked down by this particular woman officer is not without a certain appeal.