Police, Police!

Police, Police!

I have a problem with authority figures. They scare the living daylights out of me and I don’t think I’m the only one. The other day, police were sitting outside the shop and the looks upon every customer’s face as they came in were ones of pure terror…and a little excitement.

Not much happens here.

“Who are they here for?”; “Are they waiting for someone?”; “What do they want?!”

After one realises that one is safe, one hopes that another will not be so lucky so as to provide one with some juicy gossip. Fortunately, I didn’t know who they wanted; I was just hoping against hope that it was not my dad as he said he would drive me to a party this weekend so I can DRINK TO MY HEART’S CONTENT. And it would also be terrible for him if he lost his license.

Again.

So anyway, the shop was filled with low, serious, out-of-the-corner-of-your-mouth talk. The talk of the older generation was the best. They remember the good old days, when the village was really in its prime. Smoking in pubs, lock-ins, drugs, drink driving…one Bobby who came to the parties too. I have the vaguest of recollections of these times; of getting cosy under pub chairs and studying everyone’s feet intently (who wore white socks with black shoes, whose high heels were hurting etc) before falling asleep to the sound of raucous chatter. To this day, I still find that sound extremely comforting.

Happy times.

But when I was born, these times were already on the out; they were to be no more. Smoking was banned. The Bobby was placed elsewhere and police came in from the city. People were done for drink driving, drugs, lock-ins were put a stop to. Business went down the drain; owners sold their pubs. People stayed within the confines of their own house; no one saw each other. It was just too dangerous out there. The Great Bobby Apocalypse of 2000.

But back to 2014, these police stayed outside the shop all day until I went outside to put the papers in the shed and they hit the accelerator and sped off in the direction of my Dad’s.

Fuck.

But you’ll be pleased to know that I ran back inside and phoned him, and thankfully he was tucked up in bed watching Calendar Girls.

Yep, his rock n’ roll days are truly over.