Whiling away the time more profitably than sucking my thumbs, I've started collation work on the second book "The Doggie". As I went through them early this morning before sun-up, I noticed a couple of small tales, conspicuous by their absence.
So, I knocked up this story this morning, and offer it for your amusement. Please don't be too harsh - it's hot from the keyboard, and needs more work before it's presentable.
I hope you enjoy it, but don't forget the other one!
The Broken Lamp Post (Copyright)
Chesterfield town centre was a busy place especially on Market days. There was the usual one which had been there for centuries, having been granted a license by some ancient Monarch way back in medieval times. There was a cattle market as well, where farmers and producers traded their stock and all those things which go to keep the farming community running.
At Headquarters, I was given two books of forms and sent down to the cattle market with the instructions to issue the necessary licenses for the transport of animals as they were bought and sold. I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what I was doing, but I survived the day. Only the Lord and the farmers knew what I was licensing; I could have been sanctioning all sorts of nefarious activities.
I mean, a bloke comes up to me, waving a piece of paper with the auctioneer’s name on it and asks, in a dialect that I had trouble understanding, for a license to transport “8 store pigs, Hamptons, Uttoxeter”.
What could I do but write it down on the license and sign it?
“Three Jersey kine in milk.” What on earth was that? I didn’t know, but I issued a movement license for it, or them.
“Eight heifers, store, Wilton, Macclesfield!” Eh, what?
Whatever needed a movement license, I issued the necessary. Whether my actions eased or hindered the smooth running of the farming industry, I shall never know, for this sort of thing never featured in the classes at Police College.
The one clear memory I have of my duty at that market is that I needed to wash my trousers. Close proximity to the rear ends of farm animals presents far too many risks under normal circumstances, but in confined spaces and under stress – well, I think they must have been programmed to wait for my arrival. Dressed as I was, in my nice, dark blue serge suit with shiny black boots, I was too good a target to miss!
Of course, with so many people milling around, there were bound to be opportunities for mishaps and incidents. I was plodding along near to the Shambles, a block of properties dating back hundreds of years, criss-crossed by narrow streets and buildings, some of them reaching out over the street below.
I paused on a street corner, wondering which way to go next, when I felt a tug at my trouser leg, and heard a small, polite voice say, “Excuse me officer!” I looked down to see a smartly dressed little boy.
“Hello,” I replied, “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” he said “I’ve come to do some shopping with my Daddy, and he’s gone and lost me!”
I asked if he could remember where they were last together, but he couldn’t tell me. We walked a little, looking where the lad thought he’d been, but there was no sign of his Dad, so I took him back to the Station.
On the way, he told me his name, his Dad’s name, his Mummy’s name and his sister’s name. By the time we’d reached the Station, I’d heard the entire family story, including his full address, including a description of their house.
The lad was as happy as a boy in a sand pit as we booked him in and recorded it all into the book. We had just finished writing it down, completing the necessary forms, when a harassed and flustered man rushed into the Station. It was the boy’s Dad, who had been searching the Shambles and neighbouring streets for him.
Boy, was he pleased to see the child, seated on a chair, happily chatting with a policewoman. He jumped up and ran to his Dad, delighted to be re-united. As they walked out of the door, the boy could be heard chatting away, relating his latest adventure to a man who was probably thinking on how he was going to explain to his wife! It was clear that he would not be able to avoid it, not with his son being such a little chatterbox!
Round about the same time, I was sent to a little street close by the Crooked Spire, just off the trunk road running through town centre. I can’t remember the name now, Stephenson Place, I think it was. I tried just now to refresh my memory by looking at a map, but the place has changed so much in the 45 years since I was there that I hardly recognise it from the map.
When I was there, the place had two railways serving it, but they closed one of them down and used the track bed to create a better road, taking the heavy through traffic away from town centre. Part of that construction involved removal of a railway tunnel, thereby doing away with a couple of roads. I did, in fact, drive through the town some little while ago, and got lost – me who had, at sometime or other, walked every damned street the town possessed!
Anyway, there I was on this little street, looking for the site of the incident, which I soon found. It was a lamp post which had been wrecked. It was smashed and was leaning over into the churchyard, its broken stump remaining on the footpath, with its innards sticking out, like some broken and discarded toy.
The responsible people had been notified, but in the meantime, I was to stand guard to prevent people coming into contact with it, as there was a danger of stray electricity.
I was there for perhaps an hour, warning people not to go near, when I was distracted by a motorist who had turned off the main road, asking for directions, which I was fortunately able to give.
As I turned back, I could see a gentleman walking along towards my charge, with a dog on a lead, preceding him. I called to him to steer clear. He understood, but the dog didn’t. It carried on, and, on reaching the stump, did what dogs are designed for – it peed on the post, and on the wires.
It jumped in the air, yelped and ran down the street, dragging the man behind him, so demonstrating that the fuses had not blown and that wires were still live!
Chesterfield town centre was a busy place especially on Market days. There was the usual one which had been there for centuries, having been granted a license by some ancient Monarch way back in medieval times. There was a cattle market as well, where farmers and producers traded their stock and all those things which go to keep the farming community running.
At Headquarters, I was given two books of forms and sent down to the cattle market with the instructions to issue the necessary licenses for the transport of animals as they were bought and sold. I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what I was doing, but I survived the day. Only the Lord and the farmers knew what I was licensing; I could have been sanctioning all sorts of nefarious activities.
I mean, a bloke comes up to me, waving a piece of paper with the auctioneer’s name on it and asks, in a dialect that I had trouble understanding, for a license to transport “8 store pigs, Hamptons, Uttoxeter”.
What could I do but write it down on the license and sign it?
“Three Jersey kine in milk.” What on earth was that? I didn’t know, but I issued a movement license for it, or them.
“Eight heifers, store, Wilton, Macclesfield!” Eh, what?
Whatever needed a movement license, I issued the necessary. Whether my actions eased or hindered the smooth running of the farming industry, I shall never know, for this sort of thing never featured in the classes at Police College.
The one clear memory I have of my duty at that market is that I needed to wash my trousers. Close proximity to the rear ends of farm animals presents far too many risks under normal circumstances, but in confined spaces and under stress – well, I think they must have been programmed to wait for my arrival. Dressed as I was, in my nice, dark blue serge suit with shiny black boots, I was too good a target to miss!
Of course, with so many people milling around, there were bound to be opportunities for mishaps and incidents. I was plodding along near to the Shambles, a block of properties dating back hundreds of years, criss-crossed by narrow streets and buildings, some of them reaching out over the street below.
I paused on a street corner, wondering which way to go next, when I felt a tug at my trouser leg, and heard a small, polite voice say, “Excuse me officer!” I looked down to see a smartly dressed little boy.
“Hello,” I replied, “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” he said “I’ve come to do some shopping with my Daddy, and he’s gone and lost me!”
I asked if he could remember where they were last together, but he couldn’t tell me. We walked a little, looking where the lad thought he’d been, but there was no sign of his Dad, so I took him back to the Station.
On the way, he told me his name, his Dad’s name, his Mummy’s name and his sister’s name. By the time we’d reached the Station, I’d heard the entire family story, including his full address, including a description of their house.
The lad was as happy as a boy in a sand pit as we booked him in and recorded it all into the book. We had just finished writing it down, completing the necessary forms, when a harassed and flustered man rushed into the Station. It was the boy’s Dad, who had been searching the Shambles and neighbouring streets for him.
Boy, was he pleased to see the child, seated on a chair, happily chatting with a policewoman. He jumped up and ran to his Dad, delighted to be re-united. As they walked out of the door, the boy could be heard chatting away, relating his latest adventure to a man who was probably thinking on how he was going to explain to his wife! It was clear that he would not be able to avoid it, not with his son being such a little chatterbox!
Round about the same time, I was sent to a little street close by the Crooked Spire, just off the trunk road running through town centre. I can’t remember the name now, Stephenson Place, I think it was. I tried just now to refresh my memory by looking at a map, but the place has changed so much in the 45 years since I was there that I hardly recognise it from the map.
When I was there, the place had two railways serving it, but they closed one of them down and used the track bed to create a better road, taking the heavy through traffic away from town centre. Part of that construction involved removal of a railway tunnel, thereby doing away with a couple of roads. I did, in fact, drive through the town some little while ago, and got lost – me who had, at sometime or other, walked every damned street the town possessed!
Anyway, there I was on this little street, looking for the site of the incident, which I soon found. It was a lamp post which had been wrecked. It was smashed and was leaning over into the churchyard, its broken stump remaining on the footpath, with its innards sticking out, like some broken and discarded toy.
The responsible people had been notified, but in the meantime, I was to stand guard to prevent people coming into contact with it, as there was a danger of stray electricity.
I was there for perhaps an hour, warning people not to go near, when I was distracted by a motorist who had turned off the main road, asking for directions, which I was fortunately able to give.
As I turned back, I could see a gentleman walking along towards my charge, with a dog on a lead, preceding him. I called to him to steer clear. He understood, but the dog didn’t. It carried on, and, on reaching the stump, did what dogs are designed for – it peed on the post, and on the wires.
It jumped in the air, yelped and ran down the street, dragging the man behind him, so demonstrating that the fuses had not blown and that wires were still live!
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