In a quiet Yorkshire backwater away from the dubious inner city underworld, we exist, minding our own business and trying to get along without much ado. That was until I had the men in uniform knocking on the door to question me about our car being used as the getaway car for crime earlier in the day north of the boarder.
Politely yet flustered, toddler clinging to my leg, I explained my day had been packed with a post office run, play date with the village women and a trip to the hairdressers to have my roots done. All very exciting but not at all Miami Vice, I hoped my alibi would hold water. He eyed me up and down and considered the knackered looking Touran on the driveway with deep thought.
I simply could not have been there doing that today. Nodding to himself satisfied he delivered the verdict that the car had most likely been cloned.
Subject to identity theft, I'm nursing my wounds. A nasty mister somewhere has pinched a car the same as ours, stuck false plates on, and assumed our identity when doing whatever nasty misters do.
Pissed off, I'm told I can look forward to being pulled over by a patrol car in the coming days as there's a call out on the reg number so no doubt when Grace is pulling one of her toddler tantrums and the dog is barking her head off at a man wearing a hat, I'll be sat on the hard shoulder of the motorway grinding my teeth while the chassis number verifies that our car is our car.
Just another day in paradise as Jane at northernmum would say!
The only possible upside is that when that speeding ticket comes through, I can bat my lids and tell them it wasn't me guv.
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