It wasn't how I'd planned to spend a beautiful, sunny day off, but I suppose it had to be done.

The small woman with long, dark hair on the other side of the glass barely glanced up as she stamped the backs of my forms. Three forms. Three stamps. If she noticed they were overdue, she didn't say anything, which is exactly what I'd been hoping for. All I needed was yet another hassle added to this ordeal.

The police officer, the one who'd stopped me at that red light in Toronto a few weeks back, had told me to just sign the backs of the tickets and mail them in, if I were going to fight them. He looked down at me critically from way up there on his high horse and made a comment like, "I assume you've done this before."

"No, actually, I haven't," I replied truthfully. Believe it or not, I've never actually gone to court for a ticket.

He was cute, I suppose, the cop was. But in an irritating way -- pouty lips, bright blue eyes, early 30s -- and way too smug. Of course, that's usually a turn-on for me. Something I might want to work on.

Most irritating, though, was that he was wrong. Signing the back was the old rule. The new rule is that I have to appear in person at an office in Toronto between the hours of 8:30 and 4:30, Monday to Friday (convenient for people who work) in order to sign something saying I want to contest the tickets. Which is why they were overdue. I found this bit out a week later.

We'd been out for Lisa's birthday that Saturday night a few weeks back, had reservations at a restaurant in Toronto's Little Italy. Of course, had we realized it was the same night as the Taste of Little Italy festival, which closed down the entire street, causing traffic chaos on all streets radiating from its centre, we would've picked someplace else.

But the damage was already done. We crawled up Bathurst, 15 minutes past our reservation time. And as we pulled up to a traffic light at College, Lisa hopped out to boot it to the restaurant, hoping to meet the others and save our table.

Lisa, by the way, is tall. Very tall. With long legs. And that night, she was wearing a very short skirt. With heels.

So even though I'd noticed the police cruiser sitting behind us 10 minutes earlier, he apparently didn't notice us until Lisa swung her long legs out onto the street and strode past the line of idling cars.

It took precisely three seconds after that for the cruiser's lights to go on and for him to motion for me to pull over.

I knew what it was about. I'm still in negotiations with the City of Hamilton for unpaid parking fines. And by negotiations I mean the amount I need to pay seems to change every time I contact the city about it, so I think I'll just wait for the city to sort it out before I just fork over $2,000.

He told me what I already knew -- my licence plate sticker was expired. I told him it was a long story. He told me he had time.

I had mentioned this was a night on the town, right? Hence Lisa's really short skirt. And while, of late, I've been particular about bringing the girls out to play when dressing up (I've decided too much cleavage is just too Trashy-Hess-Village-Trash), whatever little I was showing multiplies tenfold when the guy is standing over me, looking down into the car, listening to a long story about Hamilton parking bylaws. So I was actually feeling a little self-conscious.

He listened to me ramble on about the injustices of municipal authorities oppressing the everyday citizen and then just sighed. "Can I see your insurance and ownership, please?"

And that's when I realized it.

In my haste to leave my place, I'd thrown a few things from my big, everyday purse into my small clutch -- my cards (thankfully my licence) and some cash into the little apple-shaped change purse. And I hadn't grabbed the plastic folder containing my insurance and ownership.

I showed him my clutch and my apple change purse, but he didn't care.

Of course, not being able to remember the name of my insurance provider (it changes every five minutes when one company absorbs another) didn't help, either. He walked back to the cruiser.

His partner (young female) explained he could have my car taken away and charge me $5,000. But he's a nice guy so he won't.

He just hit me with three tickets, all of which he advised me to fight. And so I will and I am. In six to eight months.

Cops have to show up at those things, right?

snadler@thespec.com