Member-only story
It’s Not What You Know
How I got the job — and another true saying
I opened the door to find a potbellied, unsmiling police sergeant in full uniform standing on our doorstep.
“I’m Sergeant Bruxton. I’m here to do your home visit,” said Sergeant Bruxton. His voice gruff and his eyes bore into me like he wanted to slap me on the face.
In days of old, when prospective police officers passed all the checks needed, the final stage in the process was a home visit from a local sergeant. The sergeant would, in theory, identify those who were perhaps not suitable because of intemperate personal circumstances.
Were they living in a cesspit?
Don’t get me wrong; it was okay to live somewhere that was ramshackle and rundown. It just raised questions if you were the reason the place was a shithole.
I invited him in, and he followed me through to our good room.
I say ‘good room’ as if we had several to choose from.
Apart from the ‘good room’, there was only the kitchen, the dining room, or my bedroom.
The kitchen I dismissed as too uncomfortable and we had just had our dinner — fried fish. Probably best to avoid the lingering aroma. The dining room was not so much a dining room as a games room, and the dining…
