Your Personal Police Officer

Assuming I'm like most coppers in most ways (there's a post in there somewhere, must make a note!) I don't think I'm too distinctive in trying my absolute best to avoid becoming anyone's personal Police officer.

This happens when you deal with some spurious complaint in, say, January, and that person then makes a note of your name and collar number and puts it on a post-it note next to their phone.

Then, and for ever more, you'll be called to deal personally with every matter of insignificance that happens to that person.

You get into work after a few days off and check your emails. Most of them will be a load of old tosh about some new diversity project or other, some will be a general email from somebody you've never met telling you that they're retiring/changing departments/moving to Australia then there's the ones from any number of civillians telling you off and putting you in your place.

Stuck somewhere in the middle is an email from a colleague telling you that you have to return a call to Mrs Eileen Bonkers who has phoned about a matter you're dealing with. Eileen Who? You do a quick check and see that you attended there six months ago and gave her advice about pigeons or something. And, because she made a lovely cup of tea and had some nice biscuits, you made the schoolboy error of telling her who you were.

Now, she owns you. You are hers, as surely as the ornamental plates commemorating George V's wedding over her fireplace.

This time she's reporting a problem with "youths" congregating near her house. (On a side issue, given her age, "youth" could include anyone up to and including 50 years old. But anyway...)

When you call her, she'll first want to tell you how unhappy she is it's taken you so long.

"But Mrs Bonkers, I've been off for a few days..."
"Don't give me that. The Police never had days off before this country went to pot." (She'll then go on for a few minutes about how "this" would never have happened if that lovely Enoch Powell had been the Prime Minister. Use this time wisely! Have another cup of tea and look at holidays on the internet).
"Well, we have to now. European rules I'm afraid." (Always, ALWAYS, blame Europe!) "Perhaps in future it might be helpful to call the general number and they should be able to get an officer out to you on the day?"
"That's no good, I'll have to explain everything to them all over again! You already understand!"

I haven't got the heart to tell her I haven't really been listening.

So, you trot round there, have some more custard creams, and listen to how teenagers are running amok with "those skateboard things" and how "it isn't safe to even step foot outside anymore!" You give her half an hour of nodding and making sympathetic "hmm" noises before telling her you'll set up a task force. Then, when you get back, you allocate the message to somebody from the Safer Neighbourhood Team.

This Personal Police Officer thing does have a good side though. There's nothing like the feeling of elation you get on answering the phone and Mr Doolally says, "PC Copper already knows all about this".

"Right, I'll send him an email and get him to call you straight away!"