The car in front of me is going at 45. It’s a 60 road but he’s doing 45. I’m all for safety (my car’s not a sporty drive) but this is a fast road, flat and wide. The bends aren’t enough for us to brake, but they’re just too much to overtake. And as the road straightens its line, I could slip past but there’s a 30 sign.

I suppose there’s no need for speed. So what if I’m late? It doesn’t matter when I arrive. This speed’s expedient enough for me. Is punctuality more important than a journey survived? But as I slow, he keeps going at 45.

So it’s not a safety thing, his 45. It’s just the speed at which he drives. Don’t care how the land lies. Just put it in autopilot. 45.

In a way, I respect his frame of mind. He’s not being naughty. He doesn’t care if he’s caught. He doesn’t care if its wrong or if its right. He lives by his own rule. The rule of 45.

His life began at 45. His records spin at 45. He carries a Colt 45. He prefers his wine fortified. He likes to freeze at 45 degrees, up the Pyrénées at 45 degrees. He often visits Clatchard Craig, a fort in Fife.

Oh hang on.

He’s slowing down for a speed camera.