My family and I were involved in a minor car accident yesterday afternoon. No one was injured, and we’re all fine. It did, however, result in a car chase, police involvement and three hours at the police station to give a statement. They lovely police offer who took my statement wasn’t much chop on the computer, and we had a chat about being a police officer, and what being a writer was like (me, not him). I also discovered that police statements are exceptionally boring, and my mind has the ability to create – stories, scenes, dialogue, excitement – of its own accord.

Given I was forced to endure three hours with a bad typist giving my statement on a minor-ish incident, I have chosen to give another statement here, that is hopefully much more exciting. For the purpose of good story telling, I may have embellished slightly. Ok, a lot …

Another intense pain shot through my lower back.

I’d coerced the children into massaging it for me, but knew the pain was a result of three days of lots of sitting and very little physical activity. Despite an overpowering urge to indulge in an afternoon nap, I felt the best thing to do was go for a walk. An amble. To meander along a beach, or perambulate the local river … get out of the house and wander aimlessly.

Besides, boredom was setting in and cabin fever had settled upon the household. Homicide was imminent in one form or another, should we remain housebound.

My Darling Husband leaps into action, and informs us  confidently “I know just what to do,” in his deep, reassuring tone …

We corral the children and bundle them into the car, where they sit quietly, cherubic with their blonde curls framing their porcelain features and highlighting their large blue, angelic eyes.

(Not really. They have brown hair, albeit curly. One with long, one with short and the third with ‘out of control and needs a cut’. They do have large blue eyes though, and ‘sitting quietly’ may have been a blatant lie.)

Off we set, my Darling Husband controlling the large, red vehicle we own, and the children and I singing tunes from various musicals in perfect harmony and an even more perfect key. My immaculately coiffed blonde hair sitting in place as I bobbed around, conducting the singing trio in the back seat.

(Ok, just setting a scene …sorry … no children’s ears were harmed in the making up of this scenario due to my singing, I promise …)

Slowing the car as the traffic lights ahead turned red, and the line of cars ahead of us stopped, we came to a compete standstill, when BANG! A car had run up the back of us.

I whipped around my short dark hair whippping around also, and smacking me in the eye hair remaining in place, to check the children were ok. They are such brave – and still angelic – souls, who remained calm and said “We are ok, Mummy, please do what it is you need to do.”

My slender, muscular and barrel chested husband exited the car to assess the damage and calmly and politely exchange details with the offending driver.

(“Barrel chested” possibly, in previous years. He still is ‘barrelish’ just it may have slipped below his chest and being held in place with his pants’ waist. He was calm and polite though.)

After completing my concerned-motherly duties of tending to the physical and psychological wellbeing of the Cherubic Children, I, too, removed myself from the confines of the car, my magenta and lime polka dotted dress emphasising my slender waist and voluptuous bosom.

(Jeans and t-shirt. Also, I have no waist. I do have the voluptuous bosom though, so that counts, right?)

I confidently strode towards the rear of our vehicle, in my matching magenta stilettos, which only served to accentuate the slenderness of my legs that went all the way to my pert bottom.

(Black runners ..)

An elegant being of the deepest chocolate brown (much like the colour of my favourite Lindt chocolate) and giraffe-like stature extracted himself from the car behind. I was in awe at his velvety skin, almost the colour of the black leather jacket he was wearing. He seemed out of place amongst the traffic, the rundown buildings and expansive apartments surrounding us. Also the silver chain hanging from his being, and the black pants that were sitting just below the orbs of his scrumptiously rounded buttocks weren’t helping.

Two more equally Kenyan coffee bean coloured men emerged from the vehicle, as my husband conversed with the spindly, yet incredibly tall, driver. It transpired that he had no licence on him, nor was he coherent when it came to insurance details.

My Darling Husband and I shared a glance, because sometimes we can communicate without words. I strode confidently back to the car, my magenta heels (black runners) clicking on the concrete footpath, my stylish dress swaying around me, causing a hypnotic swish-swish-swish as I moved. It was a graceful 1950s style, modest, and covered my protruding posterior as I reached into the car to retrieve my mobile phone to call the relevant authorities.

My brave husband was conducting conversation with the driver, as I was with the operator at 000. The two colleagues of the driver appeared behind me, not too close, but there, and I was overcome with a conflicting feeling of awe and overwhelming fear that my life may very well be in danger.

(Actually, it didn’t cross my mind, and I didn’t feel unsafe at all …)

 The slender African returned to his vehicle, and reversed it around the corner to “get out of traffic”. My Darling Husband followed, and at this precise moment, the phone disconnected. I calmly, yet quickly set about making another, and my Darling Husband runs around the corner. He has, however, transformed, and is now wearing tights with his underpants over the top, his slender legs and barrel chest highlighted by their tight-fitting lycra casing, his cape flapping in his wake.

“Get in the car!” he yells to me. “He’s done a runner!”

I leap into action [and I can't decide whether to go 'damsel in distress' or 'heroine' in the 'hero' not the drug sense, so I'll go with 'female super hero' if that's ok?] rip off my dress and leap into the car, wearing a brightly coloured and blingy leotard of sorts, which does more to serve the purpose of emphasising my slender waist and voluptuous bosom than the aforementioned dress did. My knee high red boots command respect, and my hair cascades in auburn waves around my shoulders, but appears not to impeded my vision or, indeed, move at all as I tip my head forward and say “Fuck, what the fuck, why isn’t the fucking phone fucking ringing. Shit!” as I attempt to dial emergency again.

Darling Super Hero Husband performs a U-turn, avoiding any more misgivings and takes chase. We locate the car in a side street as I am reconnected with a 000 operator and shout out directions with such confidence that they cannot help but adhere to my requests.

“Um, Footscray, no, wait, sorry, no Maribyrnong, oh, fuckit, um, where are we – no, no, no it’s Kensington! Yes, it’s definitely Kensington …” and I am now in control and relay directions as we proceed after the car that had almost, but not quiet, escaped.

I am transferred to a Very Important Person who will listen to my ramblings directions as we continue to chase; all within legal speed limits and the welfare and wellbeing of our children our topmost priority, the trees and buildings a blur as we drive past …

Thankfully, the other driver, albeit speeding, remained within slightly less dangerous speeds. You know that speeding most people do that is definitely over the limit, but is still speeding but “everyone is doing it’ – that speeding. He was also obeying traffic signals.

There we were, stopped at a set of red traffic signals, in the lane to turn right, some three or four suburbs away, with the Very Important Person on the other end of the phone informing me, calmly, that “No, we haven’t got any police near you, but we have dispatched someone” and my heart sinking and thinking “fuck that!” and all kinds of horrors going through my head, particularly as the operator before this guy had said “Do not get out of your car. Do not approach him. Keep yourself safe. Keep your windows up.”

Hmmmm.

As I take a deep breath to still my resolve, I heard the police sirens. Their urgency giving light to the seriousness of the situation, and five cars, lights flashing, sirens wailing swooped upon the silver car in front of us, blocking his path. A helicopter flew overhead as police, flak-jacketed and authoritative, leapt from their vehicles, guns drawn and yelled “Get out of the car! Keep your hands up!!!

(Ok, that made it sound a teensy more exciting than it was. It was one car, and it did fly past, lights flashing and siren blaring, and strategically block the car in front of us. There were no helicopters. The police did jump out, bedecked in all their policey glory, high-vis vests, guns holstered etc, and approach the car, one on either side. One did remove his can of capsicum spray and they did say “Get out of the car! Keep your hands up!” but more like “Keep your hands up, please, where we can see them. Now if you could step out of the car, please?” They were authoritative, too, though.)

We were asked to wait while the questioned this guy on the side of the road, and pat him down to make sure he wasn’t carrying. Then we were asked for some details and then asked  to go to the police station so we could give a statement.

The children remained cherubic. If you consider “Oh this is so cool! Can we do this every weekend?!” ‘cherubic’. They also knew enough to keep our secret, super hero identities a secret. We had somehow changed back into our ‘civilian’ clothing before the police saw us.

 The driver of the other vehicle was placed in the back of the divvy van, which was parked erratically partway across the intersection, and driven away. We drove ourselves, in our minimally damaged, but still damaged car to the police station.

Monkey Boy immediately approached the Constable on the front desk and said “Do you have any donuts, I’m hungry?”

(Ok, maybe not … is what I wish I could say, but I can’t, because he really did do this *sigh*)

We waited around until they had the man/woman/policeperson power to take our statements, and the children sat calmly and quietly whilst we waited.

(No, they were bored within 23 seconds and Chippie was jumping off the couches.)

Eventually, I was escorted into an interview room, where my statement was taken by a police officer who was on the scene and whom had limited typing skills, and I was near tearing my hair out watching him – you know how it is when you’re forced to watch someone type and it frustrates the hell out of you and you want to take over? That.

It took some time. Not because I am an elaborate story teller, but because he was a slow typist. Thus, we entered the conversation about being a police officer and what it is like to be a writer. I did offer to type the statement up for him, and told him it would be a much better read than what we actually had on paper, but apparently the courts don’t want a ‘good read’ they want a factual statement.

Grumpy Pants (aka Darling Heroic Husband) had been taken to a separate interview room to give his statement.

Three hours later, the kids having had the waiting room TV turned on and given control of the remote control, a packet of chips and a couple of iridescent coloured slurpies (but not donuts) from the 7-eleven next door (how convenient!) we were allowed to go home.

It transpired that the car that had hit us had been stolen some weeks before, and that the driver had been breath tested and blew 3 times over the limit.

Then I made pizza (in a gorgeous frock, also 1950s inspired, stark white with large, black spots, protected by a frilly apron adorned with colourful fruits, and my perfectly coifed blonde hair completing the image of domestic bliss) in my pyjamas.