I am going batty. I fabricate freely. I barely know truth from (my own) fiction. Here is the proof. After writing the last post, I went out in the rain and posted that dratted form to the police. When I came back indoors, the phone was ringing. The Lovely Son said "Mum, it was me! I was driving you to the station!" And so he was, on the morning I was meeting up in Berwick with fellow-blogger Isabelle. He insists that the points must go on his rarely-used licence, not mine, although he did laugh at the thought of the police thinking "What a nice lad, taking the rap for his old ma"..... (yes, yes, of course the police think kindly thoughts like that).
But meanwhile, another crime is being committed inside that red postbox, I guess, covering up the law-breaking of another. Stern magistrate K (who had wondered what I was doing out on the roads at a time of day when I'm usually still in my nightie) says I must write to the police immediately and confess all, admitting that I am a batty old woman; she agrees with me that I could add that the ferocious form induces fear and guilt in even the innocent, and that the police have a duty not to entrap the feeble-minded into untruthful admissions of guilt.
We all agree that a bureaucratic nightmare is bound to ensue. I will keep you posted, if I remember, of course.