The Loft

Picture Credit: Alamy (not mine, but suspiciously similar)

Today I finally did one of those ‘another time’ jobs. You know the ones? I suspect I’m not alone. A plumber is coming, and he needs easy access to pipes in the loft. There was nothing else for it. I had to bring some order to the chaos of randomly stashed boxes to avoid him walking off the job. If it weren’t for a failed shower pump, I really don’t know when I would have got around to it. There’s always something better to do than tidy the attic. Now, bear with me whilst I take a brief diversion.

You will have heard me mention before (too often, I’m sure) that I spent thirty years in the police. A story for another time, but for me, it was a vocational calling. Even when I wasn’t enjoying a particular posting so much, I never lost an underlying certainty of being in the right place. Alongside that, I had pride in being part of the job, as we call it. A professional rather than a haughty pride, I hope.  

Since leaving, though, that sense of pride and identity has eroded. It’s still there but covered over by shame and embarrassment. Honestly, I would rather not tell people what I used to do. When I mention it in this forum, part of me wonders what reaction it causes in readers and whether I should think of something else to write. Relentless scandals, particularly in my old force, paint a picture of racism, misogyny and operational failures. I won’t widen this article to use the jaded ‘rotten apple’ argument or to comment on media bias, political agendas or savage cutbacks, tempting as it is. Defensiveness is not the right approach. Many of the problems are self-inflicted, criticism is justified, and service delivery has let people down in a big way. As awful as the revelations are, it is better the truth is exposed to the light. Stay with me. The diversion is over. We’re going back to the loft.

Around the loft hatch are the few things we use, namely suitcases and Christmas decorations. Beyond that lies a cornucopia of dusty detritus for which the logic of retention is now a mystery. I can’t blame anyone else. I am a chief culprit. Scattered around the loft, I rediscovered many forgotten boxes of miscellaneous police memorabilia. I grouped them together in one place, blew the cobwebs off, lifted a few lids and took a trip down memory lane.

Photographs were in abundance. The cops love a class photo to be taken at the end of training or promotion courses. Before me were the faces of great colleagues and recollections of camaraderie. I rediscovered old appraisals with positive remarks, letters of appreciation, and awards of recognition. Tidying the loft turned into a time of remembering how I used to feel, recalling events I’ve never even spoken of and some restoration of pride.

It’s easy to forget what we have achieved in the past. Our loft-like brains get stashed with junk and the chore of tidying up never gets done. My writing is scattered far and wide across scrappy notebooks, random folders, and multiple computer files. Often, I feel I have achieved nothing with my writing, but when I gather it all into one place, I remember I have written more than I thought. I see pieces I have forgotten. I read them again and realise they were an achievement.  

Does anyone else feel that recent events have made you forget past achievements? Maybe progress or past success in your writing has got covered over by feelings of failure, rejection or discouragement? Why not gather it together, blow the dust off, remind yourself why you started and renew your strength?

Now for the garage…