Count to Five

One of the things that is frustrating in Australia is the speed limit. It changes about every quarter mile. At any rate, on Friday morning we started to head out of town and as we came up over a slight hill at just over 60 kmph (that's about 32 mph), I could see a police officer standing in the middle of the road up ahead with what appeared to be a speed gun. Now, mind you, I have never had a moving violation in my life (who says life never changes?), so I was a bit perturbed at my streak coming to an end. The officer motioned for me to pull to the side of the road. And, to my surprise, did not come to my door for an explanation as to why I was driving 62 kmph in a 60 kmph. I was ready with my "I'm an American" excuse, but I never got a chance. He started writing and I figured that I was doomed. Finally, the officer walked up to my door and asked me if I had been drinking. It was 10 in the morning; I had barely had a Coke (yes, some things never change). "No," I responded. "Count to five," he commanded me and he jammed a microphone in my face. I resisted the urge to count in Spanish (sorry, Miss Spence! (that's my former Spanish teacher for all of you who may not have been in the class with me), and proceeded to count to five. I apparently passed the quiz, for I was permitted to go. Yes, I'm still without a moving violation, but the pop (or was that booze) quiz let me thinking: when life ends abruptly one day, will I be ready?