Two tales...

1. I lived in Edinburgh for some years during which time I had the opportunity to accumulate a large number of parking tickets that I would pay off in lumps from time to time. For whatever reason, the normally anal receipt-writers of the Royal Burgh failed to note the citation(s) for which payment had been received on said receipts, so there was no way to correlate ticket A with receipt 8.

So one morning I get up in Moscow and fly to Gatwick, then retreive my car from some hotel car park and drive the many hours back to Scotland, arriving in a heap late in the evening. As I'm preparing for needed Zzz comes the knock, and two of Edinburgh's finest inform me that my parking ticket collection - the unpaid ones that is - has now reached critical mass and will I please accompany them on their enquiries, bring a toothbrush, etc. Paddy wagon (that's an ethnic slur, you know) later, I am at the booking desk in the Edinburgh jail (gaol) which at the time was in the dungeon below the courts, which were in the one-time Parliament building in the Royal Mile. Really a dungeon.

I am informed that I've been detained because of unpaid parking tickets. I argue back and forth that, no, they have been paid; then I ask to phone the American consular office (it's 2 AM) and that finally convinces them that I should be returned home and scheduled for my trial asap. (Note, the basement of the Parliament has arched ceilings, the cells made of your basic iron-bar designs, and past me at one point walks the gaoler, with - I am not making this up - a big ole ring of skeleton-type keys. He has a hunchback. Not making it up.)

The next week I confess to the judge (who has his head in his hands) that, yes, despite numerous receipts in my possession (un-indexed,) it's probable that I might owe the Burgh something like £100 in tickets, which is paid and I go free.

2. I was working in Rasht in the north of Iran pre-Ayatolyaso and on a day off I went out with camera to photograph cool buildings. The coolest was an old house on a side street. Small cop with large handgun takes exception to my artistry, draws down on me and marches me out to the street where he commandeers a passenger car (marvelous what a pointed .44 can do) who drives us to the police station. Turns out the house was owned/operated/frequented by members of Savak, the Shah's not-very-secret police. Oh dear.

I talk with the Sergeant/Lieutenant/whatever for a while, telling him I'm working indirectly for the provincial governor's office, said governor being the Shah's cousin, so maybe he could confirm that I'm not some evildoer. Eventually a call is made and he comes back into the room, puts on his hat, and salutes me. I am offered tea and a ride back to my hotel. The arresting cop is seen leaving the car park in front of the cop station, in something of a hurry.