We have the power to stop you... well, sort of

WE have done many things together over the years, Small But Fierce of Ipswich and I, but we have never been in a classroom as a pair.

We put that right on Saturday and, thanks to that well-spent few hours, SBF and I are now in possession of the same powers as a police constable. Oh yes.

Sadly, it doesn’t mean quite as much as it might. What it does mean is that if you, driving your car, riding your bicycle (or horse) or even walking, come across SBF and/or me you’d better do what we say or else.

Provided that we are in uniform (a chic long-sleeved number in fluorescent lime, piped in reflective tape) and have our ID badges and that we are on duty marshalling a British Cycling road race in Essex, Suffolk or Norfolk, we are the daddy.

The powers are not huge, I have to admit; we can only politely ask you to stop and wait, or possibly go over there, if you don’t mind.


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And should you elect to ignore our requests we can... ask for your name and address. I was a bit disappointed at that; I thought that standing in the middle of the road with traffic heading towards you at 60mph protected only by dayglo nylon would at least allow the imposition of an on the spot fine, or ten one-handed push-ups, but no.

Never mind. At least we get radios to play with. It’ll be Broadsword calling Danny Boy all over again.

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Away from our new roles as enforcers of the law we have been busy little bees.

I have spent chunks of a hard-earned holiday with paint roller in hand, smearing emulsion on the ceilings and walls of our rebuilt dining room/kitchen, a scant three months after the builder ambled off with a sizeable cheque in his mitt. I had to let the plaster dry properly, y’see.

So far so good. At the time of writing I have only had paint on the new carpet once and SBF didn’t see the panic-stricken lunge for sponge and subsequent scrubbing.

And the new chicken house arrived; two large boxes which I’ve yet to summon the strength to open.

The hens themselves are imminent and two of them are still short of names. I think I’ll have to wait to see what mine looks like before naming her, though by the sounds of it Baldy might be a contender for an ex-battery hen.

One thing we haven’t considered is the reaction of the hound to the chickens. When we went on holiday he ignored them totally, stepping elegantly over them as they sat on the doorstep. On his turf it could be interesting...

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