Sex fiends

Dear Diary,

So here's the scene:

John's apologising madly at the other motorist, who is screaming incoherently and waving a BMW side-mirror at him. Detached, obviously.

I'm coming to my senses and realising that I'm still lying on the back seat, legs in the air, frozen in the middle of a bicycle revolution, with no knickers on.

The policeman is out of his car and heading straight for John when he casually glances into our car - and falls over.

(Honestly, I thought police were supposed to be immune to shock)

Then, the other motorist's attention is drawn to the fallen policeman, and he assumes that this apologetic guy must actually have some serious backup in the car. He chucks his mirror on the passenger seat and drives off, tyres screeching.

The policeman is looking with concern at the rapidly-departing BMW, obviously torn between a high-speed chase and nabbing a couple of sex fiends. After a brief moment of indecision, though, another police car screams by in pursuit. The sex fiends are his by default.

I'm bright red, but at least up the right way and looking a little more dignified.

He looks at me, at John, and back at me.

"You're not having a baby."

It's a statement, no hint of a question anywhere.

"Well, not yet!" I bluster.

A hint of a smirk twitches the corner of his mouth before he regains his official composure.

A few moments later, he's dragged the entire scheme out of me. His composure cracks a little at the upside-down bicycle pedalling (demonstrated by John on the side of the road), then smashes into a million pieces. He gasps, sits down heavily and howls with laughter.

We avoided being charged - but only because a call for backup went out over the police car radio. Although he probably didn't want to try writing a report on us anyway.