The Explorer pulls over behind us. A man in uniform climbs out and adjusts first his hat, then his sunglasses and finally the leather gun holster slung around the hips of his dark beige trousers. Only when he ambles up to the window do I see he’s not the redneck sheriff I assumed, but an Indian boy, a young one, early twenties maybe, with a round, almost Asian-looking face, black hair and skin the colour of a coffee latte.

‘Afternoon, ma’am,’ he says politely, tipping the wide brim of his hat.

‘Hello,’ I say, examining him tentatively. He’s heavy-boned and muscular, but it’s the kind of muscle that with enough BBQ chips and beer might easily turn to fat.

He peers through the passenger window at the children who stare back at him with reciprocal curiosity.

‘May I see your driving licence, please?’

I confess to not having it on me.

‘It’s an offence not to carry your driving licence, ma’am.’ His English is strongly accented and he speaks in a hesitant, truncated way as though the words are being jerked out of his mouth one by one by a fishing rod and line.

‘An offence? Really?’ I fix him with a winsome Joyce Grenfell smile. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Yes, ma’am, it’s a requirement of the law.’

I look suitably grave but explain that in England you’re supposed to keep important documents like birth certificates and driving licences all safely locked up in a drawer at home, then nod vigorously as though endorsement of such common sense will confirm me as the very acme of responsibility.

‘Uh-uh,’ he says non-committally. ‘May I see some ID, please?’

I try to remember what’s in my wallet. A switch card, a library card, some dollars ...

‘You know, I’m actually not carrying any ID either. See, the thing is, we don’t really have ID in England. In fact even our driving licences are just scrappy old bits of paper without actual photographs on them!’

The cop’s trousers strain across his thighs as he shifts weight from one leg to the other. ‘Name please, ma’am.’ He hauls a pad out of his back pocket.

‘Of course, it’s Coleman. That’s C-o-l-e-m-a-n.’

‘Is this your vehicle, Mrs Coleman?’

‘Yes, yes it is.’

‘May I see the registration documents, please?’

Any ground gained from my naive-foreigner routine recedes. So overexcited to drive the truck, I never thought to check the whereabouts of any documents, let alone make enquiries as to their existence. For all I know, the truck could have fallen off the back of a lorry – so to speak.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have the registration documents.’

‘Are you an Indian?’ Emmy squawks from the back.

‘Emmy!’ I turn and glower at her.

‘Ma’am, is this your truck or isn’t it?’