Lady Copper Thursday July 20, 2006
This makes me chuckle. A few months ago, a jaw-droppingly beautiful female police officer was standing in a supermarket queue. It was peculiarly suprising, for someone who could easily have been a model: long black hair, big dark eyes, sculpted cheekbones and all the qualities justifying the appellation of “babe”. Babe, indeed. Twice, I’ve had dealings with female police officers and was both curious and amused with what happened. The first incident concerned a child who’d thrown a stone at my car and smashed a window, and in the course of my complaint I was visited at home by a WPC. She was professionally distant, and I attempted a very minor flirtation because I quite liked her. I mean, minor – all I did was comment on the nature of the incident as ‘soft’, in relation to the significantly harder crimes they have to deal with. But I said it, in one of those unsaid ways, suggesting that I liked her. She explained that she did all kinds of stuff, and on this occasion was merely “lucky”, which was her unsaid remark, saying that she understood what I was up to and appreciated it. The focus of the conversation was whether or not I would press charges, to which I was legally and emotionally entitled, but my decision was that such action was not appropriate for a child who would then have been arrested and sent to court. I was aggrieved; that damn window cost me £70 from a breakers yard and a call-out to a car guy because I couldn’t fit it myself, in addition to the time and aggravation involved. And yet here I was, saying no I didn’t want the child in court, because it would have been traumatic. Had she been abusive or insolent I’d have felt differently but she was merely bored, and then almost in tears. So WPC said she herself was “lucky”, not in relation to the child but in relation to me.
The second time was today, after I’d reported a suspicious incident concerning predatory and dodgy chavs asking intrusive questions about parked cars where I live – twice, one day after another, and then last night it appeared that one of them returned at 2 am, snooping around the cars yet again. Apparently, chavs do this in Manchester: they prowl around looking for abandoned vehicles, and seek to tow them away before the council does for some low-life beer money reward. In the process, they’ve buzzed my flat and that of others, and driven onto private forecourts asking intrusive questions about matters that are none of their business. It’s very annoying, and the subsequent extent of their enterprise is only semi-legal.
Anyway, today I enjoyed another encounter with two WPCs, one of whom was noticeably attractive and one of whom was noticeably sweet. So there I was, feeling the feelings and engaged in crime and police talk, enjoying the encounter while acutely aware of the no-go ramifications of the situation. You seek an emotional connection, very subtly and carefully, while they are bristling with batons, handcuffs, radios, and all the insignia of their don’t-mess-with-me role.
I find it very amusing and yes, I am aware of where such a subject might conceivably lead, i.e. into quirky sexuality for which the English are famous – in the estimation of other nationalities – who think the idea of a smacked bottom or handcuffs ties in with Monty Python, Basil Fawlty, and warm beer on a cricket field. And that possibility, in relation to how you feel about nice WPCs, provides further amusement.
There is, I suggest, a certain frisson with a sweet or attractive lady copper. It’s natural but forbidden, slightly dangerous and you have to be careful, and there’s an unusual power exchange whereby more normal dynamics are overridden by professional interaction. They have all the power, as with all coppers, in the sense that if you take the piss they can arrest you. And yet, if you like them that gives you a secret power – a kind of power – whereby you are resonating at another level where the rules are very different. And you do it privately, in the course of a no-nonsense chat, seeking to express it veeery carefully and having a little fun because it undermines the ostensible situation.
Anyway, I wish the ladies well and thank them for their assistance, which was both professional and fun. They’d understand the former, and I wonder if they noticed the latter.
Sadly I don’t have their photo, but this will do to illustrate the tale:
