Officer, I've never seen this gun before in my life

At the moment, I'm spending a rather odd amount of time with the Police.

Now, as much as I'd love to tell you why, I can't. Because I'd have to change my name to Billy Bob and move to the American outback.

The first thing they wanted to know yesterday, was what we'd had for dinner, as the array of leftovers present on the table baffled them (I almost suggested that they send away the remaining crumbs for testing - such is the technology at their disposal, but did not wish to impose). Regrettably, I told them the truth, which was, 'Soup with Pizza.' I then tried to justify the combination, but I could see their training kicking in. It didn't help that the room is covered in bunting and hanging paper things (in preparation for a party), and the largest object is a giant pink and black hula hoop (exercise). Also Ginger Beard has tied my hair up while I was doing the washing up, and has done a poor to awful interpretation of what a bobble's for.

After this, it was hard to have a nice conversation. We looked like mentals. The very same mentals they were hunting.

They keep leaving me voicemails, and when I phone back, no one's ever heard of the Officer in question. This makes me the worst prank phonecaller ever:

'Oh. hello, I was just returning the call of a PC Jones.'
'PC Jones?'
'Yes.'
'Reference number?'
'Um, I wasn't given one.'
'Why not?'
'It was a message.'
'Well, they would've left a reference number, and besides we don't have a PC Jones.'
'Okay.'
'We have a PC Mcendrick.'
'Right.'
'But she doesn't work Mondays.'

SORRY FOR BLOODY TRYING TO HELP. WHY DON'T YOU JUST ARREST ME?

Yeah, so before this call they caught me in my grey. furry slippers, green pyjama bottoms, and maroon hoody, then the call, then the soup with pizza.

It's like when the Police walk past me in the street, and my face automatically arranges itself in the exact expression which projects, 'Not only do I have drugs, but I killed a man, and cut him up, and the bits of him are in my pockets.'

I automatically assume a position of guilt.

Why?


 I forget how to be normal as soon as they're around. I don't stand a chance. I'm going to get 15 to 20, in an all women unit with packet mash and ill fitting shoes. I'm getting dandruff, and a nail to scratch the slow passage of days into the floor, and, AND I'm going to have to be someone's (inevitable) bitch.

Write to me.