Sharon Phillips

Can you imagine losing your virginity to the words, "Sorry to ruin your night"?

I really enjoy the drive west. There's a hulking great gap in radio reception on the way up the range and I like to think my way through, letting myself be hypnotised by the static until tiny patches of song begin to push out again, bleeding into each other until I have music. I stick my arm out the window and fight the buffets of the wind to fully extend the aerial so it bounces along like Noddy's hat. Some of my best thinking is done along that stretch of road while I'm performing the regulation speedo check with the signs (it's THERE, I can't NOT do it) and looking out for suicidal roos.

When I finally passed my driving test I was so grateful I swore I would never:
a) lock my keys in the car
b) run out of petrol, or
c) get a speeding ticket

a) and b) I achieved twice each the first two weeks after getting my licence. (To be fair to b) I didn't realise that the fuel gauge in the Mini wasn't working, but then we're still left with the embarrassment of a) which I have no excuse for.) I finally took care of c) on Saturday night on the way back through the valley.

I had finished congratulating myself on having come up with a sterling idea for a novel and was just starting my interview on Parkinson when my rear-view mirror lit up red and blue. Not often a good thing, and especially not when, as it turns out, you've accidentally been doing 20km/h over the speed limit. I went through what I imagine is the standard conversation (the one with no right answer - Did you know you were speeding? Yes. So why were you? No. Why not?) Being a curious person I found the whole process rather interesting, and I must have accepted the accompanying fine with uncharacteristic good grace, because the police officer was extraordinarily apologetic.

"I'm sorry to ruin your night, but if it makes any difference it's the smallest one of the lot."

The fine. The fine.