Sheltered

I have an apparently inexhaustible supply of wishful thought in my sorry excuse for a brain. Over the weekend I discussed my situation with my sister, and she convinced me that I should really report the scooter accident to the police. I didn’t think it would do any good, but as she said, the police are in a better position to say what they are or aren’t capable of or interested in.


So this morning I took a pleasant twenty minute walk down to the local police station. I envisaged having a nice little chat with a friendly policeman, who could give me a response somewhere in the spectrum between “Sorry sir, but there’s nothing much we can do” on the one end and “By Jove, those hooning blaggards will pay for their callous disregard for your safety! Send out an APB and tell them to shoot on sight!” on the other.


What I got was this:


Bogan police chick: Can I help you?

Me: Hello, I wanted to report a motor vehicle accident.

Bogan police chick: Fill in this three page form and bring it back to the counter. There are pens over there.

Me: Oh, okay. Could I have some assistance, please?

Bogan police chick: (dull, uncomprehending stare)

Me: I’m right-handed.

Bogan police chick: (further dull, uncomprehending stare)

Me: (meaningful glance at bandaged right arm)

Bogan police chick: Oh. You’ll have to take it home and get someone else to fill it in for you. When you come back we’ll witness your signature here… er, with your left hand.

Me: (annoyed, all too comprehending stare)

Bogan police chick: It’s a legal document. We’re not allowed to help.

Me: Thanks.


You can’t get advice from someone who only thinks in terms of forms. Sometimes I think the police exist purely to keep the blue flashing light and siren industries busy.