This week, Broadstairs writer and dominatrix Melissa Todd learns about road safety – via Zoom – after a lapse in concentration earned her a place on a speed awareness course.

Recently one of those letters you know won’t be good news plopped onto my mat. Smug and ugly, in a cheap brown envelope, as though we were still enduring rationing.

I’d been caught speeding. 36 in a 30 zone, in Devon, one Saturday evening. Bother.

I remembered the occasion: I was coming back from a festival, chattering excitedly, trying to figure out directions, not paying as much attention to the road as I should. £100 fine and three points, or a speed awareness course, which is £93 and no points. An easy choice.

I chose the last possible date for the course, in the hope the world might end beforehand, but the day crept closer without the world showing signs of obliging. Bother, again.

There were eight of us, being made aware of speed via Zoom. I arrived first and was told to “go make myself a cuppa” while I waited. I did as I was told. Well, Carolyn was a police officer, presumably, or some figure of authority anyway, so I thought it best to obey. In fact, she explained she was a freelance contractor, who’d been providing driver training since 1984. She knew her stuff. In particular, she knew how to get us all on side fast, for there were a fair few sulky faces glowering in the harsh morning light.

“This is slide number 5 of 86, yay! First, a few rules. Make sure I can see your faces at all times. No phones, telly or crossword puzzles while we get through this. You can’t have other people in the room with you, although pets are welcome. That’s my dog. He’s DBS cleared. Right. You made a mistake, didn’t you?”

Vigorous nodding. Yes, a mistake! We weren’t bad people. We didn’t want to mow down pedestrians, honest.

“And I bet you didn’t even know you’d made that mistake, did you?”

Slightly less vigorous nodding. Was this a trap? Surely drivers should know when they’ve broken a road’s rules?

“So you could easily make the same mistake again. Let’s try to figure out how to stop that happening.”

We were shown pictures of roads and asked to guess their speed limits. Having passed my test 28 years ago, I did a lousy job. I had a vague memory that streetlights meant 30, unless a sign said different, which turned out to be more or less true, at least for cars, unless you’re in Wales…it’s complicated, OK?

“If in doubt, chicken out!” She liked a rhyming mnemonic, did Carolyn. “Only a fool breaks the two-second rule!” We looked at videos of cars hitting stuff at 30, 31, 32 MPH, to marvel at the extra damage a little speed creep can do; next, we imagined all the repercussions of seriously hurting a pedestrian - to us, to them, to our respective families, to onlookers - all the damage caused by a little thoughtlessness, combined with rotten luck.

“If you get stressed at the wheel, try saying out loud how you feel! Swear at other drivers, it relieves tension!”

“And could you cope without your licences?” None of us could, of course. We needed them to earn a living, to ferry grandchildren, to exist in a country where public transport is expensive, patchy and often downright useless. “So if it’s so important to you, why risk it?” The question was rhetorical. We stared at our hands and vowed to be better.

We made lists of the reasons people speed. Being angry, being late, other people driving badly. Fast music has been proven to make you drive faster too. “If you get stressed at the wheel, try saying out loud how you feel! Swear at other drivers, it relieves tension!” I perked up at that. My road rage rants are legendary. “And if they swear at you, enjoy it! They’re having a bad day, getting it out of their system, good for them!” I liked Carolyn and resolved to make her proud of me with my henceforth legendary driving.

Last, we thought up creative ways to avoid speeding in future. I promised to put a sticker on my speedometer to remind me to be mindful of it. One chap suggested a post-it note saying “333” on the dashboard; if you speed, you might save three seconds, or get three points on your license, or you might have to spend another three hours with Carolyn. While the last didn’t sound such a burden, three years must pass before we’re allowed to undertake another course. Meanwhile, if we’re caught again, it’s points. “And what do points make? Not prizes!”

It had been a terrific morning and I felt I’d made friends and learned heaps. As one we waved a cheery goodbye and I dashed to my car, as I’d an appointment in Southend. I drove with immense thought and care, while positively revelling in my government-sanctioned swear-fests.