Sometimes I come home from work and feel quite pleased with what has been achieved with the last nine or ten hours. More often than not, I have managed to make some progress with something on my never-ending ‘To Do’ list. Even on days when I haven’t slapped some cuffs on a baddie there is still some degree of satisfaction to be gleaned from getting hold of that illusive victim statement or finishing that griefy Crown Court file ahead of the due date for once.
Some days, however, are so frustrating that you just feel like going outside, banging your head repeatedly against a brick wall and screaming to the skies.
Today was one of those days.
The sequence of events that led up to this outburst started a couple of months ago:
A garbled call was made to the 999 operator in barely intelligible, broken English. Myself and one other unit from the response team were deployed to what the call-taker believed was a violent domestic. Ten minutes passed as we were both on the other side of the district having just dealt with a group of drunk teens having a party without appropriate supervision (the parents were there, but even more drunk than their children and their children’s friends). Everyone else was already in custody or fighting elsewhere at the time. Continue reading





