Making Progress

If only George Dixon could see us now.

He’d be amazed at how far we’ve come.

‘Technology’ probably wasn’t a buzz-word in his day. We’re full of it now though.

You name it and the modern Police officer has it somewhere in his armoury. From the humble friction lock baton to satellites. If we need it, it’s there. Some of the time. The only slight niggle I have with technology is it’s a bit temperamental. It isn’t Policeman-proof.

I blame the disposable society in which we now live. I could hark back to the good old days. Days when all I would have to rely on were my sharp intellect and penmanship. Days when a dynamic risk assessment wasn’t required to escort a septuagenarian across the street. Though to be honest I do actually like some of the modern gizmos. Crumple zones and airbags spring to mind.

Imagine George with a personal radio. He could play the song title game on early shifts. As long as he wasn’t in a blackspot. Or it was raining. Or it was humid.

He could find lost cats much easier with the aid of a helicopter. So long as it wasn’t raining. Or a bit breezy. Or they had run out of fuel. Or Jess had strayed anywhere near an airport. Or it was past the pilot’s bedtime.

If things took a turn for the worse in downtown Dock Green he would be like a dog with two tails. Even if the lack of a strap caused his baton to slip from his grip. Or it failed to extend. Or lock. He could rely on his CS spray. Subject to one or two limitations. Obviously.

Like having forgotten to give the can it’s twice daily shake. Or being too far away. Or being too close. Or it being a bit breezy. Or the sprayee being as high as a kite, mentally challenged or both. Or spraying himself. Or, heaven forbid, forgetting to shout a warning first.

If all went well he could break out the Quick-cuffs. As long as they hadn’t fallen out of the inadequate holder during the hurly-burly bit. Or the cuffee had large wrists. Or small ones. Or he couldn’t remember one of the Home Office approved cuffing manoeuvres.

A van with a cage would then be available to him. As long as it was completely clear of the previous arrestee’s bodily fluids. Or wasn’t making a regular ‘disturbed house’ call. Or the anti-lock brakes hadn’t lived up to their hype.

Back at the station he could settle himself down in a climate controlled office. So long as it wasn’t the height of summer. He could log on to a computer. Server maintenance permitting. Using one of his fourteen passwords. Then type the same thing three times. On different software packages that haven’t quite mastered the art of talking to each other.

At some point he’ll have to turn back the clock. Reacquaint himself with a familiar friend. One that hasn’t changed much. A trusty ally he could rely on.

The Throbbing issue black biro.

So long as it wasn’t too cold.