The long arm of the law finally catches up with me
I am writing this column locked in a jail cell. No, really. Fifteen minutes ago, police officers turned up at my home. They put me in a police van, took me away, and then locked me in a cell.
Yes, they got me at last! I know a lot of readers are thinking: it's about time -- how on earth did that cheeky columnist survive on the loose so long in a place like Asia?
I was thinking the same thing myself. Officers gave me little information except the fact that my crime was one for which I might be released on bail.
So I am writing this in a tiny, barred jail cell wondering which of my many crimes I had been nabbed for. Perhaps it was for writing: "Most Westerners think of Asia as a place of natural disasters and bad leaders. Actually, they're right."
Or was I being detained for general acts of being sarcastic in public places? Or had I been caught red-handed in the act of committing irony?
I was not particularly worried, as my normal mental state is "hungry for new experiences," or as my wife prefers to call it, "borderline insanity."
And I knew that police officers, like bees, tax collectors and facial moles, are charming companions as long as one doesn't antagonise them.
Indeed, my mind was working in the way that only a journalist's mind could work. You see, to the dedicated reporter, getting into trouble is a badge of honour.
Journalism is a funny sort of job. A typical conversation among reporters goes like this:
First reporter: "I got sacked yesterday for something I wrote."
Second reporter: "Wow, you lucky dog. I hoped to get sacked for my column yesterday but I only got arrested and beaten up."
Third reporter, carried into the scene on a stretcher, on his way to the Accident and Emergency department of the hospital: "Well, I got SHOT for something I wrote."
First and second reporters: "COOL."
I recall being at a dinner party where a doctor said: "You can only call yourself a professional if you can be struck off for misbehaviour by a committee of your peers."
"Lawyers can call themselves professionals," a lawyer said, and then asked me: "What happens to a reporter who misbehaves?"
"He gets promoted," I replied.
Half an hour later: I'm a free man!
The cops let me out. But they gave me some really bad news. The offence for which I had been jailed was a minor motoring one. I was crestfallen. My visions of "Asia gripped by mass civil unrest after inconsequential minor syndicated columnist arrested" vanished.
Being locked up for a parking offence was intriguing, as I don't have a car.
But it took only a few minutes for my lightning-quick brain to work out I had been collared because my name was on the registration document for my wife's vehicle.
Outside the station, I found that selfsame lady waiting in that selfsame car -- neatly parked on a double yellow line, of course.
Anyway, she knows me well, and had just the right words to comfort me. "Don't worry, dear," she said. "I'm sure one day you'll get properly arrested, beaten up and shot. And if the police won't do it for you, I'll do it myself."
Now that's love.
Feel free to tongue-lash our columnist at his website: www.vittachi.com.
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