Community Support

Our itinerary took us past Stonehenge: we would have liked to visit it, but rain was belting down so we decided to leave it for another time - ideally an evening of clear skies when you can watch the sun setting spiritually through the stones. So, with a few hours to kill, we swung into the nearby small town of Amesbury to see what was of interest. In the car park I asked a chap to recommend a coffee shop.

"Just up there on your left. The Friar Tuck" he said. It didn't sound promising and, as we approached, it didn't look it either; closer still and the smell of fry-ups vindicated our suspicion.

We peered around from under the umbrella, hopeful of an alternative, but saw none among the familiar array of shop-fronts. There was the handsome-looking Bell Inn, but the experienced wanderer through the rural towns of England has reason to be wary of such exterior charm, having too often found a gloomy interior, obsequious staff and Nescafé, served until 11.00 a.m. But we were in luck: this place had been rescued by Wetherspoons, the pub company founded by a New Zealander which has restored life to many of our redundant but interesting buildings. Its formula seems to be a good-quality fit-out (respectful of the buildings' heritage) and an all-day offering of food, proper coffee and decent ale at reasonable prices. Not surprising then that The Bell Inn was buzzing with locals hanging out and sorting their lives. Here, in the de facto Amesbury community centre, we found a comfortable corner to shelter from the rain, read and drink Lavazza.

In Manchester, the next morning, I walked past a gaggle of Police Community Support Officers. It's unusual to see so many of them together but I assumed they might be huddled in a pre-deployment briefing. Further on I walked up behind a big bloke - shaved head, thick, bull-like neck, grey jogging pants - talking loudly into his phone and, just to confirm my prejudice, I hung back to listen.

"He's not hard. So? He head-butted a few old guys. That's not hard. Anyone can do that. Anyway no one likes him. He's just a bully, Dave. Seriously, I'd take a bat to his head" and so on for 200 yards. Fascinated, but fearful of being caught eavesdropping, I crossed the road.

Later, back at home, there was a knock on the door - which is also unusual (for those not accustomed to flat-dwelling, we are not easily accessible - great for avoiding hawkers, Halloween scroungers and carol singers). I opened the door to a couple of PCSOs, come to question me, I supposed, about a violent-looking chap with a bull-neck and grey jogging pants. But their mission was actually more prosaic.

"Sorry to trouble you sir, we're doing a survey and would like to ask you a few questions - if you have five minutes."

Disappointed but intrigued, I invited them in to sit, politely but awkwardly, on the sofa, all bundled up in heavy outdoor clothing and fluorescent jackets.  Apologetically, one of them read me a questionnaire obviously adapted from a market research handbook - "How likely is it - very likely, not at all likely" and "On a scale from 1-10" etc. I felt their embarrassment and sensed they would rather be on the street looking out for crime.

"It's a community policing feedback initiative" they explained.

I asked if they had got any other respondents in our block.

"No," they said "we're struggling to get to grips with the community round here".

"Go to Wetherspoons on the corner", I said.

"You could get your quota ticked off there and be back on the job in half an hour".