A Policewoman’s Lot

[SATISH]

Despite this positive side, the male PCs on the section were known as inveterate piss takers and had a reputation for constantly playing practical jokes, some of which were quite elaborate. Alison was a bit naïve and fell for it every time when they targeted her. They called her up on the radio, depressing the transmit button to cause the message to break up, and repeating the words “six inches.” Alison replied back, “I’m only getting six inches,” to hysterical laughter from the rest of the section. Another time she was sent to an address and told to try to locate a mythical “Mike Hunt.”

When the film E.T./ Extra Terrestrial came out, the PCs began calling her E.T. or Echo Tango in the phonetic alphabet, supposedly referring to her enormous tits. Alison had difficulty keeping a straight face if she was dealing with a member of the public when it happened.

PS Jim Rose considered himself as God’s gift to women, and seemed to get worse. Sometimes he would pick Alison up in the patrol car and try it on. He would ask her if she was on the pill, or if she was wearing stockings and suspenders, and try to put his hand up her skirt. Or else he would try to kiss her and fondle her breasts. Alison found it a bit creepy, as he was older than her father. But she learnt to fend him off, and put him off by inventing an imaginary boyfriend she was getting engaged to. PS Rose accepted rejection with a fairly good grace, almost as if he was just trying to maintain his reputation as a ladies’ man. And he had already seen her naked and groped her bum and bust anyway, she thought.

In one of many elaborate practical jokes, Alison was sent to check an old derelict hospital building in the early hours of the morning. Supposedly there had been reports of squatters moving in. She walked unsuspectingly along the corridor of the deserted ground floor, picking her way through assorted debris on the ground with her torch. A huge figure in a white sheet wearing a grotesque Dracula mask suddenly leapt out at her from an open doorway without warning, shrieking and groaning, and grabbed hold of her, pinning her arms to her sides. Alison froze and screamed in terror. She nearly had a heart attack. The figure tried to wrestle her to the ground, when the rest of the section appeared with flashlights and collapsed in a fit of laughter. Paul O’Neill had called at the fancy dress shop earlier. “You bastards!” she screamed indignantly, then saw the funny side of things and joined in the general laughter. “I’m going to get you one day,” she threatened.

On another occasion, they produced an official looking document bearing the Force’s emblem. It read, “The task of the modern police officer is a varied and demanding one. In the opinion of the Chief Constable, the current one mile run component of the standard fitness test in sports kit is inadequate and unrealistic. Henceforth all probationer constables will be required to complete the one mile run in the allotted time on divisions in full uniform.” It went on to detail how local sports facilities should be used for the test, and so on.

“This is a bit of a nuisance, Alison,” said PS Dave Cowan. “We’ll try to get it done on early turn. We’ll use the running track at the sports ground. If you put a reasonable effort into it, you should be able to do it well within the allotted time.” Alison nodded, a little apprehensively.

When early turn came round, the section drove round to the sports ground at 6.30 a.m. in the van. “I want you all to give WPC Cox plenty of encouragement. She has to do the mile run in full uniform. It’s important that she completes the run within the allotted time. Are you ready, Alison?” he asked.

[SATISH]

Alison nodded nervously, dressed in full uniform, including her hat and gloves, and carrying her handbag. “I’ll do my best, Sarge,” she said. “But it’s not easy running in a skirt. Do I have to do it carrying my handbag?”

“I’m not sure,” said PS Cowan. “It doesn’t really say in the instructions. It just says full uniform. I suppose that includes your handbag.”

“You can do it, Alison,” said Paul O’ Neill. “Yes, you can do it,” all the others chimed in. They piled out of the van, and PS Cowan produced a stop watch and a whistle. Alison walked gingerly over to the start line, accompanied by ten male officers who were trying to keep a straight face.

“This is the start line then,” said PS Cowan. “The standard mile is four circuits of the track. If you get down on your marks, when I blow the whistle you can set off and I’ll time you.”

Alison crouched down at the line, still dressed in her tight skirt and tunic, blouse and tie, shoes and stockings, her hat on her head, clutching her handbag. “Wait a minute, Sarge,” said Don Marsh “When they say full uniform, it doesn’t mean her hat, does it? It’ll fall off when she starts running.”

“I don’t know, Don,” said Dave Cowan. “It just says full uniform. It’s supposed to be a realistic test. What do you think, Alison? Have you heard anything? I want to get it right, otherwise you might have to do it again.”

“I’ll do it in my hat and handbag and everything if you think I should,” Alison said nervously. “It says full uniform.”

A lengthy discussion ensued between the ten men about WPC Cox’s running attire. Dave Cowan pondered the question thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you what, Alison,” he said. “You’d better take off your hat. Like Don says, it’ll fall off when you start running. And leave your handbag and gloves here as well. And take off your tie and tunic and unfasten your top button. So just do it in your skirt, blouse and shoes. But if anyone asks, remember to tell them you did it in full uniform, tunic, tie, hat and handbag and everything. We’ll back you up.”


“I will, Sarge,” Alison said, beaming with relief. “Thanks ever so much. That’ll make it a lot easier.” She crouched down at the start line in her skirt and blouse and uniform shoes. Dave Cowan blew his whistle, and Alison set off at a brisk jog to pace herself, with the ten male officers shouting encouragement.

[SATISH]

WPC Cox ran with difficulty in her tight skirt, but she was grateful she had been allowed to discard her hat, tunic, tie and handbag. It was nice of all the section to turn out to cheer her on. She hoped she could do the four laps in her uniform in the allotted time. It was a lot different to running in shorts and trainers. She picked up the pace as she came to the first curve. Try to keep up a steady pace. The grass was quite wet and spongy and her shoes and the lower part of her stockings were soon covered with spots of mud. Just keep going, she thought. It was hard going with her skirt. It rode up with the effort of running, but was still tight and restrictive around her thighs. They should allow extra time for running in a skirt, but then again the test was supposed to be more realistic, and you didn’t go out on patrol in sports kit.

Alison set a steady pace, but was unable to lengthen her stride as she would when she was running in shorts. She completed the first lap to a round of applause and cheers from PS Cowan and the lads. “Come on Alison! Keep it up! You can do it! Only three more to go!” She smiled and gave them a brief wave as she passed them.

She started to tire a little halfway through the second lap, and slowed a little. Maybe she wasn’t as fit as she thought she was. Too many bacon sandwiches, maybe. But just keep going. She was slowly eating up the mile with every step. She got her second wind and stepped out a little, at least as much as the tight skirt allowed. She lowered her head and tried to power forward. Must keep within the time limit, she thought.

Alison finished the second lap to more applause and cheers from the section. Half way there, she thought. The third lap was harder going, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on. She wondered how she was doing for time. She finished the third to tumultuous applause. Last one now, she thought. Give it all she’d got. Try for a fast lap. Alison’s thighs strained against the restrictive skirt. If only the WPCs were allowed to wear trousers, she thought.

Alison gave it all she had as she finished the final lap, encouraged by the section cheering and beckoning her on, her lungs bursting as she stormed over the finish line. She came to an abrupt halt, bent double, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. “Did I do it, Sarge?” she panted breathlessly. “Did I do it?”

The section roared with laughter. Some of the PCs collapsed on to the grass. Alison stared at them in bewilderment. “What is it?” she asked. “What is it?”

The truth slowly dawned on her. “Oh no, you’ve done it again, haven’t you? You bastards! You bastards! You’ve done me again, haven’t you?” she panted breathlessly.

[SATISH]

There was no reply. They were all helpless with laughter. Alison slowly regained her breath, and straightened up. PS Cowan produced a bottle of water, and she gulped it down greedily. “You bastards,” she said again. They all hugged her and patted her on the back, laughing uproariously. As they got back into the van, Alison finally saw the funny side of things and started laughing with them.

It was now Alison’s twentieth birthday. No longer a teenager, she thought, as she came into the station that night. It was a fairly quiet night when they came in for a refreshment break at 1 a.m. As she got out of the patrol car in the station yard, the rest of the section suddenly appeared, grinning broadly. “Many happy returns, WPC Cox,” said a beaming PS Rose. “We have to mark your birthday appropriately.” Don Marsh and Paul O’Neill took her by the arms. She struggled and tried to break loose, half expecting an action replay of the snooker table session. How did they know it was her birthday? She deliberately hadn’t said anything. She had heard that a WPC on another section had her birthday marked with a spanking. Supposedly her sergeant had put her over his knee, pulled up her skirt and pulled down her knickers, and smacked her bare bottom. What had they got planned for her?

They opened the automatic gate to the station yard and pulled her out towards the tall metal flagpole outside the police station. Alison tried unsuccessfully to kick Don Marsh and pull free. They held her arms and brought her up against the flagpole. It was a warm night, but the metal pole was cold against her thin blouse. The cord of the pole was clinking softly against the metal pulley. Alison stopped struggling. They brought her arms around the pole and quickly handcuffed her hands behind her back, securing her to it. She tested the handcuffs, but they were on too tight to slip out off. She was secured to the pole and helpless. “Hey, you can’t leave me like this. Not with my hands behind my back. Let me go,” she protested. They walked off calmly back into the police station. “Let me go, lads, and I’ll make the tea,” she offered hopefully.

There wasn’t much Alison could do but wait. Her key ring and handcuffs key was in her handbag in the patrol car. At least it wasn’t raining, she thought. She had heard of other WPCs being handcuffed to the flagpole at night. She wondered if they had their hands cuffed in front of them. That would at least be a bit easier. She had heard that one night a WPC had been cuffed to the pole when the Superintendent drove past her into the police station yard on an unannounced visit. Superintendents didn’t normally work nights, but theirs did occasionally, and even went out on patrol with them. He liked to be seen and understand what was going on. He had just smiled when he saw the WPC In Distress, and said nothing. He seemed to think that practical jokes of this kind were indicative of high morale on his station.

After about quarter of an hour they emerged from the station and unlocked her wrists. They took her back inside the station. “How did you know it was my birthday?” she asked.

“We make it our business to know these things,” said Don Marsh. “We have to look after our Woopsies.”


“Make a wish, WPC Cox,” said PS Rose, producing a large birthday cake bearing her name with 20 candles. Alison blew out the candles. “Thanks,” she said. They could be really nice and thoughtful at times, she thought – when they weren’t handcuffing her to flagpoles, and when they weren’t groping her, and when they weren’t playing stupid practical jokes on her.

[SATISH]

WPC Cox sometimes complained to the male PCs about their endless banter, silly practical jokes and general sexist behaviour. They just laughed and said if she couldn’t take a joke she shouldn’t have joined. Alison was accepted more by them now and she got on well with everybody. It was just part and parcel of being the section woopsie, she thought. They said that if you weren’t thick skinned when you joined the police force, you soon would be afterwards.

Having been tricked and had over so many times, she was now less green and began to wise up a bit. One day PS Rose, who was standing in for Dave Cowan as the patrol sergeant, briefed them about a planned operation. A flasher had been seen in an isolated area of the park and had exposed himself to a number of schoolgirls. A description of the man was given, a middle aged white man in a dirty raincoat. They would take up positions where he had last been seen and try to catch him. To entice the offender out, WPC Cox would act as a decoy after dressing up in school uniform. “We’ve borrowed a uniform from the grammar school for you, Alison,” he explained. “It is a larger size. It should fit you okay.” He handed her a large polythene bag containing items of clothing. “We can get started as soon as you’ve got changed.”

Alison went to the WPCs locker room and examined the contents of the bag. There was a maroon school blazer and school tie, a short pleated grey skirt and knee length white socks, and a school boater hat. I can wear my blouse and shoes with these, she thought. She took off her clip on police tie and slipped off her uniform skirt, then her shoes and stockings. She knotted the school tie around her collar and put on the white socks, then zipped up the short grey skirt. It was fairly short, barely reaching to mid thigh. She laced up her shoes and tried on the blazer. That was a bit tight with her large bust, but it would be okay if she didn’t button it up. Then she tried on the hat and examined herself in the full length mirror in the room.

Alison was quite tall and a bit old to pass as a schoolgirl, she thought. But the offender would be looking at the uniform and it would probably be okay at a distance. It should be okay, she thought, though the skirt did look really short on her. She folded her uniform and placed it in her locker.

Suddenly she had second thoughts. She had noticed a bit of a smirk on Don Marsh’s face and she wondered if this was just another of their planned wind ups. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. Getting her to dress up in school uniform, like girls sometimes did on fancy dress nights at the night club in the city centre. Sending her to an isolated spot where someone could jump out at her, like they had when they sent her to the derelict hospital building. It had all the hallmarks of one of their practical jokes. But she wouldn’t say anything. She’d play along with them for the time being.

Alison went back to the parade room, where the rest of the section were gathered. She gave them a twirl as if she was modelling the school uniform. “What do you think, lads? Do you think I’ll pass for a schoolgirl? It’s a bit tight. Do you think my skirt’s too short?” They all agreed that she was fine, and that she needed to show a bit of leg to draw out the flasher. “I won’t take my handbag. I’ll carry my radio in the polythene bag. Where’s Sergeant Rose?” she asked innocently. “Isn’t he here?”