I have been in court.
This was not because my comeuppance has finally caught up with me, but because I was called and compelled to attend as a witness.
I was not pleased about this.
Regular readers might remember that some time ago I provided the getaway vehicle for a villain from Liverpool who had assaulted somebody and then pegged it. Initially I refused to take him, because people going a long way away always think that taxis should be providing a convenient bargain-basement service and I am too idle to do all of the arguing involved: but then he offered me £200 cash up front, so I put it in my pocket and off we went.
Today was the day of his comeuppance.
I had already given several pages of statements to the investigating officer, who was the opinion, like me, that it was all a bit of a storm in a teacup.
The whole thing was an incident of domestic violence.
This was what happened.
A family of five, mum and her two teenage children, plus partner and their shared baby, had come up to the Lake District on holiday, stayed in an uncomfortably posh hotel and felt a bit out of their depth. In consequence they all drank rather too much, including the two teenage children but probably not the baby.
In the hotel bar a row erupted.
The teenage boy called the partner a rude name, several rude names, and ridiculed him in public.
The partner explained to the teenage boy that he was behaving disrespectfully and that he would prefer it if he would desist in this behaviour until a more appropriate moment.
The teenage girl said that the partner should not talk to her brother in such a fashion, and then proceeded to kick him in a sensitive area, after which she punched him in the face.
Feeling that some form of parental chastisement was in order, the partner got hold of her around the throat and shook her until here teeth rattled.
The posh hotel, preferring not to have this excitement happening in their dignified lounge, had called the police at quite an early stage in the proceedings. The police happened to be unoccupied and arrived quite quickly, at which point the partner burst into tears and, as has already been recorded, pegged it and jumped in my taxi.
I took him home to Liverpool and made sympathetic noises.
Today was the court case.
I had to get up early. I had to not do all of the things that I wanted to do in order that I was available to support the due processes of law. I rang my hairdresser to see if he would cut my hair whilst I was in Kendal, thus at least giving the trip a positive and rewarding purpose, but he is very popular with the elderly inhabitants of Kendal and was far too busy to see me at such short notice, so the whole trip had no redeeming features whatsoever.
Thus I dressed myself in the smartest things I could find which would not need ironing afterwards and made my irritable way to Kendal Magistrates’ Court.
I had to go through a metal detector and be frisked all over and have my bag emptied. The small round gentleman in the important uniform checked carefully through my clean handkerchief, hairbrush and emergency tampons before deciding that I did not present an immediate threat to the public and could be allowed to enter the otherwise empty building.
I was escorted to Witness Protection.
In the olden days witnesses and villains were all dumped in the same holding area where they could threaten and abuse one another at their leisure during their long wait for the grinding wheels of justice. This no longer happens and I was shown into a small room furnished with uncomfortable sofas and a coffee table. I could not wait there on my own but had to be supervised by a man in a suit with a badge round his neck.
He explained to me that court might not be the way it seemed to be on Coronation Street and that I need not be afraid that anybody would shout at me, and that if I did not know the answer to a question I could just explain that I did not know, and again nobody would shout at me. He said that I need not worry or feel troubled because it was all a safe and lovely place and I had no need to be intimidated by it.
I put up with a minute or two of this incredibly patronising nonsense before explaining that I did not tend to mind people shouting at me, being a taxi driver, nor did I suffer from any disabling lack of confidence, but would be pleased to have a cup of coffee. Then I got my book out to discourage further support and reassurance and ignored him.
Two other witnesses were shown in, with a separate supervisor, which enabled my supervisor to leave me under her supervision to go and get my coffee. We were told that under no circumstances were we to discuss the case, or anything about it.
These witnesses turned out to be the mother and the teenage daughter, distinguishable by their incomprehensible Liverpool accents. They looked sad and frightened, and I felt sorry for them.
After a lot of hanging about the prosecution came in. He was a dishevelled looking man who clearly shared my opinions about ironing. He explained that the accused had been offered a plea bargain and would perhaps plead guilty to a lesser charge of common assault in exchange for dropping the more serious charge. This may have been attempted murder, I never found out. If it had been my daughter it would certainly have been attempted murder, and quite possibly actual murder.
The two other witnesses, instead of being distressed by this, were palpably relieved.
It turned out that the domestic dispute had long since been resolved, they were all living happily together and were friends again and trying to get on with their lives. The wife and daughter had spent the intervening time pleading with the criminal justice system to leave them alone and let them just try and work it all out between themselves.
The Crown Prosecution Service had decided that this would not be a good idea. Instead the whole thing had steamrollered on, until today, when the two witnesses had been obliged to come from Liverpool and stay overnight in an hotel, at taxpayers’ expense, find childcare for the baby and take time off work.
The whole awful thing had left them shaken and helpless and miserable.
I was not impressed.
I put on my very best middle-class patronising tone which I have carefully observed from some of the more aristocratic parents at school. I obliged the prosecuting solicitor to explain himself, and asked who had been responsible for the decision to prosecute. He made the mistake of saying rather proudly that he was, which I thought was probably unlikely, and that he was sure we would agree that a zero tolerance policy in relation to domestic violence was an admirable thing.
I disagreed rather strongly, and at some length, and explained my opinions in relation to support of struggling families and misuse of resources in an overstretched criminal justice system.
After a while he coughed and looked guilty and sloped off, leaving a shocked silence in the witness room, and the other two witnesses, tearful with relief.
We were not allowed to leave until the court had finished. The prosecution requested a conditional discharge, which was granted.
The Witness Protection Service asked me to fill in a form describing my experience of witness care and wondering whether my confidence had been improved as a result of their efforts.
It was a tick-box form. I wrote my opinions all over it.
Then I stomped off home where I discovered that Mark had forgotten to do the washing up, and was obliged to ring him up to issue some domestic abuse on my own account.
I have been given a form encouraging me to list my expenses in order that the taxpayer can cheerfully reimburse them in gratitude for my public service.
I am considering calling Vladimir Putin to see if he will stand for election here as well and inject some ruthless pragmatism into the system.
I am feeling grumpy with the world.
