I remember the predictable topics for school essays that we were made to write. Returning from the summer holidays meant a write-up on what you did during that vacation. If you hadn’t gone out of town, you still tried to make it sound interesting even if all you did was eat, sleep and play.

For example, you might write that you devoted two hours a day to studies (the teacher could see through that straight away) or you might speak about the new skills you mastered. There was a risk in doing so, however. If you were called on to read your masterpiece aloud, there were sure to be some sniggering from those among the class who spent the holiday as wastefully as you did.

Another favourite topic was ‘The Day Everything Went Wrong’. This was a challenge in inventiveness. So, you gave your imagination free play and wrote all about the awful things that happened to you. You were convinced that the teacher would even feel a twinge of sympathy for poor hapless you.

A few days ago, I did have one of those days. It started with trying to find a courier office to send some important documents. After several phone calls, I was given an address close to my house. Though it was within walking distance, I got into a cab as I was pressed for time. Imagine my surprise when, on reaching the location, I found the sign missing. The office had moved somewhere else.

Now I’m sure you’re thinking ‘so what’s so terrible about that?’ Well, if you have chalked out your plans for the day right down to the last minute, it can throw your routine out of gear.

Then, when I reached another courier office much farther away, I was told it would take four days for delivery. In that time I could send it by ordinary post, I thought. To make matters worse, I had to shell out what seemed like an enormous amount for some flimsy papers.

Later in the day, I stood on the pavement, waiting to cross a road. This was something I did several times a day. Head swivelling to look out for oncoming traffic, I strolled across when it was absolutely safe to cross and no vehicle in sight. There was a pedestrian crossing some distance away, but that meant retracing my steps and taking a longer route home.

Suddenly, a white unmarked car pulled up in the parking lot, which I had to traverse, and a voice asked me for my ID. Bewildered, I rummaged through my handbag but also remembered to sneak a glance at the gentleman to check for his credentials. As if he were a mind reader, he tugged at his identification which hung round his neck.

Soon, my details were noted down and my card taken away. I was asked why I hadn’t used the zebra crossing. I said the road was absolutely clear. However, my excuse cut no ice. I was told curtly to collect my card from the headquarters at Al Barsha and that the fine was Dh200.

All I could think of was the inconvenience of having to go so far away to retrieve my document. In a last-ditch effort to save myself the hassle of that journey, I asked if I could pay then and there. Needless to say, all I received by way of answer was a brusque no.

Even the sight of so many other jaywalkers being caught and fined didn’t make me feel any better.

All I can think of now is if only I had taken those few extra steps to the designated crossing, I could have saved myself the trouble of having to travel that same distance multiplied many times over to retrieve my ID card.

So, zebra crossings here I come.