At 07:45 one morning last month I bade farewell to my family and turned myself in for the UK’s shortest custodial sentence. I went to my home office and, as instructed, closed the door with all the solemnity and finality of the prison door clanking shut in the opening scenes of Porridge.
I clicked on the Zoom link I’d been sent, showed my ID to the two officials who appeared on my screen and was admitted to the virtual cell I’d share with a dozen or so fellow cons. They all had the submissive, hangdog air of old lags who just wanted to do their bird and get back to their families, who were specifically barred from visiting. We were told that there’d be a 20-minute tea break halfway through and if we needed the toilet we could nip out. But otherwise we were locked in for the next three hours, with no time off for good behaviour.
My crime? Doing 47mph in clear conditions along an arrow-straight, uninhabited rural road which would usually be a 60mph limit, but which falls within a special 40mph zone covering Ashdown Forest. I mention this not out of a sense of injustice, but only to reassure Ti readers that I’m not some reckless, life-endangering speeder. I know the limit – I was on the way home from dropping my daughter at school – and I know that lower-than-usual limits are generally there for a reason; in this case the risk of deer-strike.
