Alas, dear reader, there are times I have found myself on the wrong side of the law.

I do not wish to frighten you but I must admit that at one time I had two warrants out for my arrest.
I was not running from the law, just avoiding it.
Indeed, it is precisely through my history of avoidance and nonchalance that I found myself, in the summer of '92, walking under police guard to the Mandurah Courthouse.

As you know, I have a cavalier, if not renegade, attitude toward bill payment.
Even as we speak I have one disconnection notice, one threat of license suspension for unpaid parking fines, one Pay Immediately and another so cheeky that I have been compelled (again) to write Fcuk Off on it.
Yes, we have discussed this before. I know the deal.
I believe I can't be arsed dealing with it.
I know I've got it coming but, sadly, I don't give a shit.
It's a shame really. It's a major thorn in my husband's side.

"Just pay the bills when they come in." he says.

"Okay." I promise and promptly don't.

And this is precisely the chain of events when, in that most frenzied of summers, I was the proud owner of Baby Bear's Cottage, a luxe children's boutique of my own creation. Preoccupied with running shop, rearing my own two tiny children, buying, selling and sewing entire nurseries of the requisite manchester, I simply forgot to pay the registration on my utterly wretched beige and caramel Datsun 200B.
And I forgot for the longest time until, inevitably, I was called to order.
An order I promptly ignored.
It was callous disregard. I even remember laughing as I saw a police car crawling up our quiet cul de sac, as I turned the corner for the coast.
Laughs were scarce, however, as the same car eased to a stop outside my business premises a week later. Two burly policemen with papers in their hands emerged, explaining that my reluctance to Deal With Issues had resulted in not one, but two warrants for my immediate arrest.
If I could just empty the shop of paying customers, they were ready to escort me to the courthouse.
Sadly, no amount of eyelid batting would prove successful in avoiding this issue and reducing the assortment of fees and charges I was required to pay so publicly; but my big eyes and innocent visage did manage to endear me to the pair who happily made use of my coffee back at the shop.

Their new friendship came in very handy with two speeding fines I incurred a mere four months later. One fellow was so enamoured of our new friendship that he visited my home after the infringement to theatrically tear the speeding ticket up before my very eyes, claiming that he had made an error and, as such, the slate must be wiped clean! I'm sure he was angling for another cup of coffee - until he noticed my husband, lurking with narrowed eyes and tightened jaw, in the hallway.

It's a shame the same friendly policeman wasn't in the security section of the Perth Airport eleven years later as I struggled to make my case against a pair of pink fluffy handcuffs in my on board luggage.

"And what are these, Mrs Carroll?" asked the large and sweaty itinerant fruitpicker masquerading as security guard, holding aloft, and with much aplomb, my pretty implements.

"Oh" I gulped, disappointed that I had neglected to pack the fluffy interlopers in my suitcase. "They're part of a costume. I'm planning on being a Fembot. In the middle of West Papua."

He smirked. He nodded. Knowingly.
He held them a little higher and smirked and nodded again for the benefit of the passengers bottlenecked behind me. He smirked and nodded meaningfully once again at my poor son who had now turned a bright shade of scarlet and had begun to shrink into his adolescent shoes.

"Well, Mrs Carroll, I'm afraid I can't let you travel any further with these restraints on your person." he announced, holding the pink fluffy LoveCuffs aloft so that all could properly see them. "They are contraband. They are prohibited and they are considered a dangerous item to allow on board an aircraft."

"You're joking, surely!" I scoffed. "What do you expect me to do with them on the plane! Restrain the Captain?"

"Well now!" he laughed, for the benefit of the audience that had gathered now about the sordid scene, "We can't be too sure of that, can we? (wink)"

"But-"

"I'm going to have to ask you to hand over the cuffs. To me. Now."

"But-"

"Now."

I took note of the muscled security personnel, twitchy and itching for a cavity search, I stared at the giggling, gathering audience. "Sorry" I whispered to my florid and uncomfortable son.
I glared finally at the smarmy smuggler of my pink fluffies, and bid my farewell.

I wasn't happy. I loved those babies.
But in hindsight I like to think it was a symbolic gesture, saying goodbye to the handcuffs.
I've come very close to serious trouble since; an armed police contingent outside one of my parties, almost being kicked off The Island, a very scary visa face-off in The Little Room at Denpasar Airport and a swathe of misdemeanours to fill in the gaps, but nothing so diabolical I might end up wearing a cold hard pair of the cuffs myself...

That is unless I forget to deal with those bills I mentioned earlier...