"Cent quarante kilometres par heure," was what the nice gendarme told me I was doing when he caught up with me. That's hardly 95 mph so I can't see why they were worried about it.

There I was, innocently charging up the N141 after having dropped Alastair back to Angoulême station, and this mad fucker in blue dungarees jumps out infront of me into the fast lane. So I swerved around him and carried on going, albeit slightly more slowly. I hadn't realised they were trying to stop me, I just thought they were being friendly as I whooshed past - so much though that I waved back at them as I went past.

Anyway. About five minutes further down the road, this Renault Laguna raced past, sirens blaring, and pulled me over into a layby. In ten years of driving I had to be pulled over in a country where there's a slight language barrier.

"Pourquoi vous n'avez pas arrêter?"
"Parce-que j'ai penser vous-êtes juste à me geste."
"Mais j'ai rester dans la route."
"Oui. Je sais. C'est dûr t'éviter."
"T'as conduit à 147kph. C'est trop vitesse."
"Ah. C'est monter."

I decided the "Oh, it's kilometres - not miles - per hour" line wouldn't have worked very well given the situation. After having done a papers check and looked at their watches, they drove me to a bank to withdraw 600 francs as a fine then sent me on my way with a quittance. I tried very hard to have difficulty withdrawing cash from the cashpoint ("Acceptez-vous American Express?") but they sussed that and helped me by going through my wallet to find a card I could use in the Credit Agricole machine. Bastards.

Big guns. If either of them had've been cute I would've tried offering them head in exchange for the fine. After all, it works in Cadinot films. ("Oh hello officer, I was just walking along this road in my ripped tight white teeshirt and small shorts and I met you and, oh, I'm rubbing myself...")