Imagine my terror.

It seems like only yesterday - no in fact it was only yesterday that I was nailing nappies to my projectile-vomiting baby daughter, extracting pieces of toast from the DVD player, and the cat. Prizing said terrified cat out of cupboards and microscopically tiny places in the house after she'd tried to super-glue it to the ironing board whilst threatening it with a highly amusing, for her, toy that emitted piercing shrieks whilst throwing itself around the living room to the accompaniment of a Led Zeppelin track if I recall. It took me years to find her a email address since spawn-of-satan@hades.com had already been taken.
   Now, approaching her seventeenth birthday, the house still wet from it's third rebuild, she has announced her desire to drive.
   I think the world is a pretty cruddy place at times. There are people who definitely do not deserve to be on it. But can I really let my daughter loses on the unsuspecting populace who only have nuclear weapons while she could soon be armed with over a ton of hurtling steel and a serious, not to say, terminal attitude?
   I braced myself and phoned my insurance company last week. Then after waiting for ten minutes while the operator slowly composed herself and stopped giggling, she informed me that the GDP of Mexico was slightly less than what she was going to charge me to insure her for my car. That should have been enough. Sorted, I told myself proudly. I'd done my bit. And now the world could breathe a sigh of relief.
   'You could always sell your motorbike.', my wife smiled in that malignant way way a shark does just before it bites your head off,  'Since you don't use it for anything important, except for going to work. You could take the tube.'
  The only reason I risk the daily Armageddon that is London with my bike is because I cannot afford the tube. A one way ticket to the centre of town costs twice the GDP of Mexico. And the last time I finished work at three o'clock in the morning after the tube had closed for the night, forcing me to catch eight night buses to get me home, accompanied by the kind of people who usually inhabit only my worst nightmares, was the last time. I mean, how long can it take to walk twenty two miles?
  So I've come up with a cunning plan. It involves deviousness on a scale that Winston Churchill would have been proud of. If it doesn't work you'll know, because I'll never be able to write my blog again. I probably won't be able to do anything again - ever.
    Can you be forced to see visitors if you're in prison? Might be safe. After all, they only have murderers in there.