Pieds en feu (Feet on fire)

At every shift’s end you can hear the complaint “My fucking feet are on fire.” Or “My bloody feet are burning.” It’s guaranteed. We’re all dog tired at a shift’s end, and the pace has been upped to a point where it takes me over an hour to recover enough from work to cook or even write when I get home. I slump at my desk, literally exhausted. Even my rest days don’t give me enough time to recuperate properly.

I can’t speak for the others, but it’s a fair bet that many are feeling the same way. This whole new regime has us missing much needed breaks, simply because there is no way you can manage your beat properly and fit everything in. All the zinc oxide tape and talc in Christendom isn’t making much difference on the foot front either. In addition, an old Rugby injury is making its presence felt. In the words of Marvin the Paranoid Android “I ache, therefore I am.”

While I’m ranting on the subject of ‘targets’; first thing this morning I was reading about the new educational ‘targets’ being set for pre-school children and babies. Is someone having a laugh here? Is this a joke? If not; I’m bloody well not having any putative step-grandchildren of mine anywhere near a state monitored nursery. The powers that be can keep their inept and greasy mitts off them. Even at the end of having to forcibly and terminally remove busybodies like this from the household (Sorry, thought they were a kidnap gang. No, never saw any local authority ID – Really Officer, I didn’t. Sorry about the blood). Even if we have to smuggle the poor little mites out of the country.

Is it just me or is everything being driven by ‘targets’ nowadays? Would someone with more than two properly functioning brain cells kindly tell me what real and practical use these ‘targets’ fulfil? Apart from driving the people who actually do a job of work somewhere up a very large and precipitous wall? Having given the matter a little thought I wondered; isn’t it funny those who set the bloody targets are never the ones who have to meet them, day in, day out. How they must laugh at us poor fools.

Excuse me, I just don’t understand the need; but then I’m just a thickie Parking Warden type aren’t I?

Sick

After the cold and damp of the last couple of weeks, our numbers are at an all time low. A few of us thrive in the cold weather, but for those more delicate flowers, the cold and wind has scythed them down to snot ridden heaps of coughing, shivering, sneezing flesh. I’m not too keen on hot weather myself, and often find the chill rather enervating. Mrs S has observed on more than one occasion that I have a ‘cold weather metabolism’. This adaptation probably comes from prolonged hours in the saddle of a motorcycle in all weathers not so many years ago.

Another advantage at present is that those who are left get the pick of the beats. No more ‘long walks spoiled’ which is nice because my new boots are still chafing a little. Never mind, Kerry, my boss, is pleased to see us as, to put it in her own words; “You lot are all Duracell bunnies, you just keep on going no matter what.” I think she means it quite innocently, not referring to something like this when she hears of the hardier souls among us heading out on patrol when others just want to come indoors during rough weather. For myself the reason is purely selfish; I just like to pick a sheltered spot out of the way where I can daydream a bit, away from my noisier brethren who think the sound of their own raucous voices is the loveliest sound in the world; and as for the stench of day old microwaved curry (Horrified shudder). Why do you think we call it ‘The Mess’?

Any old road up, I’m feeling quite smug at present as I’m just going to start another ‘long weekend’ type rest break. Life could be a whole lot worse.