Take it from me, when a Nevada state trooper approaches the car you have just been driving at a substantially illegal speed across his wilderness, it is time to be scared. And when the sun glances off his mirror shades and dazzlingly white teeth as his hand reaches into his holster, you’ll start scanning the horizon for itinerant underwear vendors earning a living in the Mojave Desert.
I have a colleague who was recently handcuffed to a prison wall in the Land of the Free for a speeding offence which, compared to what I was guilty of, was about as serious as walking on the cracks in the pavement.
The conversation went: ‘Licence’. Pause. ‘Registration’. Pause. ‘Passport’. Pause. ‘That is the most goddam beautiful car I have ever seen, sir. It would be a shame to find it on its roof. Do we understand each other? Good. Have a nice day.’ Or words to that effect. It was rather a long time ago and, under the circumstances, I took the view that getting out my Dictaphone to record the conversation was unlikely to improve matters much.
