You Can Call Me Bonnie (or Sophie)

May 3, 2018

Driving no. 2 daughter to Milton tonight, we were coming down the side road to merge onto Hale Street, where a motorcycle cop was sitting in the middle of the road.  His lights were flashing so we figured it was a road block.  We stopped.  Another car stopped behind us.

“What’s happening?” I asked. 

“Dunno,” Ed said.

We waited. 

For a few confusing seconds we had blue and red lights bouncing over our faces while wide eyes were on the blue-checker helmet of ‘the fuzz’ in front of us.

Suddenly he spun on his seat, raised his hand and bellowed “DON’T MOVE!” 

We froze.  *gulp*  We’re not moving… honest!

(I could have sworn he said ‘don’t effing move’ but Ed later said this was my imagination running away with me.)

Someone behind us started sounding their horn.  I wanted to yell, the pigs said don’t move man!

Before I could say anything another motorcycle cop was banging his fist on the roof and screaming at us, “MOVE YA EFFIN’ CAR!” 

I thought we must have driven into a siege, a gun fight, a bikie shoot out… maybe I should lock my door!  The only weapon I had was hand sanitiser.  If I was MacGyver I’d turn it into a Molotov cocktail.

Four or five motorcycle cops screamed past us, then a few police cars followed them up Hale Street ahead of a cavalcade: a few impressive limo’s, a scary-looking black van (obviously S.W.A.T.), another cop car, then a 4WD cop – all lights flashing.  Somebody important needed to get somewhere in a hurry, and we – Mr and Mrs Suburbia – were in the way.  If we were any closer to the action, we would be in witness protection by now and I’d have a new name.  (I’ve always fancied myself as a Sophie.) 

I’m worried that witnessing our lawless lifestyle has completely effed up no. 2 child who was speechless (for once) on the back seat.  She’ll need therapy – just something else we’ll have to pay for.

Now that Ed and I are on the run, we’re trying to keep a low profile.  I told him he should me Bonnie and I’d call him Clyde.  (I’m afraid he might have PTSD… Police Traumatic Stress Disorder.)

We are “bad-ass”. 

(Does putting bad-ass in inverted comma’s make me less bad-ass?)   

I did park on the footpath once after the council said ‘don’t’; sometimes I don’t put cans in the recycle bin; and yesterday I insisted the newsagent sell me a Go-card because I had no. 4 child’s student ID and thought it was ridiculous that he needed to be with me.  We also had takeaway twice this week, and you know what that leads to?  Drugs.

As we hid in the house with the lights off, Ed asked, “Do you think that was Chuck and Horse-Head in the limo?”  (I knew he meant His Royal Highness, Prince Charles and Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall but sometimes Ed uses affectionate little nicknames for really, really important people for whom he has the utmost respect.)  

Which explained everything. 

Chuck had been to Bundaberg this day and was sampling Bundy Rum, which we all know is fire water.  Hence the need for the S.W.A.T. team and why everyone was super edgy.  Mystery solved.

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