I handed in the chit Frank had given me and was directed to wait downstairs. The waiting room didn’t contain any magazines or ashtrays-they don’t really want anyone to wait there for very long. Like the man and woman already there I sat on a hard chair and stared at nothing. I didn’t know about them, but I had plenty to think about. I’d read about the Lenko trial and heard radio reports but the details weren’t clear in my mind. Had there been a mistrial or was an appeal pending? I couldn’t remember.

I was getting more edgy by the minute. Having your licence lifted is no picnic. The procedures were swift, bordering on brutal. The wording of the Act had stuck in my mind. If you were disqualified at the court of petty sessions you could appeal, but, “Every such appeal shall be in the nature of a re-hearing and the decision of the district court thereon shall be final and without appeal”. Not even Cy Sackville could draw that out very far. There probably were procedures for reinstatement, but they were bound to be long and expensive.

In short, this was real trouble, and I was on the point of getting up and phoning Sackville when my name was called. I almost didn’t answer. You don’t have time to investigate a bridge jumper, I thought. Your survival comes first. But I told myself the Lenko business was all a mistake anyway. Frank’ll probably have it sorted out by six. Who could resist a man from such an office wearing such a suit? I went to the desk and collected a large manila envelope from the female constable whose blonde hair flowed out becomingly from under her hat. She advised me to have a nice day.

“You too,” I said. My positive attitude was working-I was being nicer to people. But just to show I wasn’t going soft, I got moving before an escort could be appointed and made a judicious selection of pamphlets in the lobby- they’d add a nice touch to my waiting room if I ever got one.