We have a complex relationship, the Garda Traffic Corps and I. On the one hand, it seems as though nothing I do is ever good enough to please them. But still I rather suspect that, like me, they've come to enjoy our little chats, writes Eoin Butler.
It's 8.30am on a Saturday and I'm heading west for the weekend, shooting like a blue streak across Co Westmeath. I'm making great time until just past Mullingar when I get stuck behind the Celestial Church of Christ minibus, spreading the good news this morning at a steady 35mph.
It's single lane traffic, with a constant stream of cars coming in the opposite direction. My attempts to overtake the bus prove fruitless, so I decide to pull over.
I'm parked on the forecourt of a petrol station in Ballinalack, when a garda comes tapping on my window.
"Is everything alright there?" he asks.
"Ah fine", I tell him. "No complaints."
He eyes me suspiciously."You waiting for someone?"
"No, guard" I reply, brandishing the baguette in my hand. "Just having a bite to eat." His demeanour instantly changes. "Fair enough!" he smiles.
No item of food better encapsulates the changes Irish society has undergone in the last decade than the humble breakfast roll. A case could perhaps be argued for foie gras. But the vast majority of Irish people (this writer included) have very little idea what that is, let alone what it tastes like.
The breakfast roll, on the other hand, is famously popular, not just with the construction workers who fuelled the recent boom, but also with the hungover late-night carousers who revelled in its excesses.
Yet for all that, it's also deeply traditional. After all, what could be more soothing on a Saturday morning than a traditional fry-up? An Irishman could wake up with a sore head to find his potatoes blighted, his church prohibited, his children exiled and his four green fields paved over and an Aldi opened where his cattle used to graze.
But put some rashers, sausages and a bit of black pudding on a plate in front of him and then suddenly it won't all look so bad. Chuck them all in a baguette meanwhile - to accommodate his new, faster-paced lifestyle - and you've got the culinary innovation of the decade!
Certainly the officer tapping at my window this morning seems reassured to see what I'm eating for my breakfast. He's placed me now. He knows the sort I am: unsophisticated, slovenly and probably not a food connoisseur of the top drawer. But not a likely threat to the peace.