My legs don’t do mornings. My eyes would be wide open, staring at the spider webs that appeared on my ceiling overnight, my mind was almost always filled with hope and anticipation for the new day and my ears would be listening intently for anyone who may have got up before me. But my legs… my legs won’t move an inch. I can appreciate their defiance in some respects, after all the daily ritual of standing in a shower and cycling to the bus for university requires very little from my eyes, ears or brain. My legs, however, know that those two miles will have to be cycled by them and so it’s understandable that they would resist at least a little.
Today was a proving a little worse than usual. For starters it was six thirty two on a Sunday morning and not even my eyes were convinced that this was a good time to be awake. It was also very cold and very dark, and my legs were using those factors to their advantage. But no lazy limb was going to prevent me getting out of bed, because today was the day I start my community service, and I was not going to be late.
Well, it’s actually not called community service anymore. Official government guidelines stated it would now be referred to as ‘unpaid work’, but I couldn’t see that catching on.
I had very little notion of what to expect from today. I didn’t look like your typical criminal and I imagined that I would appear distinctly out-of-place amongst my fellow unpaid workers. I would be the nerd in the group, what with my spectacles and my love of using the English language correctly. I feared I wouldn’t get on with my colleagues (I guess that’s what I should call them. Either that or ‘criminals’). I hoped I wouldn’t get picked on. It felt like I was going back to secondary school.
Although this was my first official day of unpaid work, I had actually already knocked a few hours off my punishment by attending a ‘health and safety’ video briefing in Cambridge one evening the week prior.
The appointment was scheduled for 6pm in this small building behind the Cambridge Police Station. It looked more like a house than a place of work, and I had walked past it twice before I realized what it was. Not that it mattered, I had given myself well over an hour to find it.
We were well into October now and the first signs of winter were beginning to show. The trees looked bare, the days had grown shorter and the air was chill. The light from the property was welcoming, and when I opened the outer-door I could already feel the warmth emanating from within.
Once inside I was greeted by a small, cosy reception area, complete with waiting room and a variety of literature that was designed to encourage the various delinquents that must sit here to learn key skills and get themselves out of crime. There were leaflets on drugs and knives and all sorts of things that had very little to do with me.
The room was entirely empty and I stood in the middle, staring at the various police posters that lined the walls. The reception desk was hidden behind a perspex window in the wall, with a small grate so that visitors could speak to whoever was beyond it. It looked more like something you’d see in a bank, but I guess it was a vital security measure to protect staff from an unruly transgressor. I approached the window and waited a few moments before a disgruntled woman appeared, who must have been in her early 30s.
“Hello, what can I do for you?” she said surprised to find someone.
“Hi,” I said with a friendly smile. She seemed cross to see me, and I had long since discovered the best (and most amusing) way to deal with unhappy people is to be overly friendly. They really don’t like it. “I am here for a health and safety briefing.”
“You’re early.”
“I am.”
“It’s not scheduled to take place for another 25 minutes.”
“I know. I must be eager.” I said, my grin never leaving my face.
“Ok,” she sighed. “What’s your name.”
I gave her all my details and she checked her list.
“Right. I guess you can take a seat. I will call you when we’re ready to go through. It’s a long wait though.”
“That’s fine,” I responded. “I am pretty sure I spotted a potentially riveting leaflet on cocaine, so there’s plenty to keep my occupied.”
She looked at me blankly for a few seconds and then walked off..
She was right, I was unnecessarily early, but I’d much rather this than be late. I sat down and continued to scan the room, which didn’t offer much inspiration. I checked my phone before contemplating which leaflet to read, before someone else entered the room from the cold world outside.
This guy looked in his early 20s or late teens, but his appearance and demeanor was the polar opposite to me. Where I was wearing a blazer and a shirt, he had jogging bottoms, a dark blue hoody and a baseball cap set slightly askew on his head. He walked with a distinct lollop. My girl friends would describe such a gentleman as a ‘chav’, although I never really understood what that meant.
“Hello,” he said loudly at the window. The glum receptionist soon returned, although this time I wouldn’t blame her for having an attitude problem.
“Here for anger management,” he said.
“Ok, what’s your name.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Are you Paul?”
“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. It was like watching an Harry Enfield caricature of a teenage boy.
“Ok. We’ll be with you in just a moment.”
The receptionist left and Paul’s mobile phone rang.
“What?” he said to the person on the other end of the line.
He listened for a few moments.
“She’s done what?”
Another pause.
“You tell her… not, actually, don’t say anything. I am going to kill her. And fuck him up. Seriously, what a total twat.” He was getting progressively louder. “She thinks she can get away with this shit… that’s it. I am going to smash them up.”
He was pacing by the door to the outside world and slammed his hands against the frame. I stared down at a leaflet about abuse, hoping not to catch his eye.
“Right, when I’m done here, she’s for it, and he is. Seriously, and you better not be bullshitting me.” He hung up the phone. The receptionist had returned to her desk a few moments earlier and nervously said: “If you’d like to go through the door there and down the corridor, it’s the second door on the left.”
He didn’t say anything, he just flung open the door she had pointed to and left. I looked at the receptionist: “Think he might need more than one appointment.”
She cracked a smile. Success.
20 minutes later and I was seated in a small room with an old CRT TV and a VHS player. I was placed in front of a stern middle-aged man in a suit, who looked exactly like someone who would be involved with health and safety. I was in the meeting alongside two other troublesome sorts, one lad who belligerently spent his entire time on his mobile and a girl that kept asking pointless questions such as: “Why do I need to be here?” Which succeeded in nothing more than lengthening our time in the room. A fourth criminal was either late or had just not turned up and was instantly put on report. One more failure and he would be back in front of a judge. This was why I was early.
After an introduction as to why we were there, our teacher – if that’s what he was – put in a video, pressed play and then stood at the back of the room. Just like a real teacher.
I am sure there was a time when health and safety videos were actually useful, and not just a string of useless advice designed primarily to protect the employer/Government from any legal action.
“Be careful not to fall over uneven ground.”
“Try not chop your leg off with an axe.”
“Do not start a fire near flammable material.”
Actually that last one would have been quite useful.
That was it. A video and then home. That had been my community service experience to-date. So as I got out of bed a few days later, quietly so not to wake my parents, I couldn’t help but feel anxious about my first full day giving back to society.
It was a crisp, cold morning and I cycled the 15 minutes from my home to the Market Square in St Neots. There was a smattering of cars around the square, a couple of people heading to work, and one mini-bus parked bang in the middle of the square That must be it, I thought, and I approached cautiously to see two men standing outside the bus smoking. I wasn’t sure how to introduce myself but I didn’t need to.
“Are you here for community service?” asked a man who I would later discover was the leader, Paul. He was of average build, about mid-40s, and with thinning blonde hair. He wore a paint stained blue jumper and torn jeans. He also always called it community service, despite the official guidelines.
“Yes,” I said, trying not to seem out-of-place. I was wearing my old Green Day hoodie, which was just black with a white logo, and grey jogging bottoms that I borrowed off my Dad. I didn’t think my typical suit jacket, shirt and jeans combo was sensible attire for manual labour. I also didn’t think my ‘geek chic’ efforts would go down particularly well with the sort of people I was expecting to work with.
“Great. Hop on. We’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.”
The other gentleman – a thin man of indiscernible age who wore a fishing hat and a green anorak – simply nodded at me as I walked on. I would later discover his name was Tom, and would become the teller of the most bullshit stories I’ve ever heard. Which were nevertheless always entertaining.
That was ok, I thought. I had tried to read their reactions to me, but they didn’t seem that fussed. I was just another guy to them. I walked onto the mini-bus. There was only one other on it at this point, a young guy with short dark hair, dressed all in black. He was listening to music on his iPod and didn’t acknowledge me, or anyone else for that matter. I didn’t take it personally.
I sat on the backseat and in the corner. I wanted to go unnoticed and for it to stay that way until I was dropped off again. Could I blend into the background and be left entirely alone for six months? I hoped so.
More people piled on the bus over the course of the next ten minutes, and it soon filled up. There was a young blonde woman who kept telling the leader that she ‘can’t be doing any physical labour because of her condition’… whatever that was. Then there was a short, elderly man who looked at least 65. There was another chap who I instantly recognised from my local pub, and who was known for being a bit lecherous. I wasn’t surprised to see him sit next to the young lady. Then a bald, well-built man who was covered in piercings got on. He barely said a word and had the look of someone who could kill a man just by staring at him.
His name was Lloyd. I found this out because of the next person who got on the bus.
“Oi, Lloyd you bald bastard. Cheer up. Are you hungover or something?” yelled the young man, followed by a distinctive cackle. The question was a rhetorical one because clearly he already knew the answer.
“Two pints and a few shots of JD is all it takes to bring this one down. Don’t let the piercings fool you,” he told the rest of the bus.
The boy was named Ricky. He looked younger that Lloyd but they were clearly close friends. It was an odd partnership, because Ricky was the opposite to the big guy in almost every way. He had a head full of hair, he was scrawny and, most significantly, he was loud.
“You do like to talk don’t you Ricky,” said Tom, who was seated in the passenger seat of the bus.
“You love me Tom. I know it. I saw you looking at me as I got on with your filthy fisherman eyes. You want me.”
Ricky was clearly the class clown who liked to draw attention to himself and others. He was the last thing I needed. I kept my head low, hoping he wouldn’t notice me.
“Hey we have a new one.”
Balls, I thought. Ricky jumped into the seat in front of me and got a little too close to my face for comfort. He then looked to my left to see the lad listening to his iPod.
“Actually we have two new ones. But he’s being anti-social. What are you here for?”
I hesitated for a moment, which gave Ricky a good chance to keep talking.
“No, let me guess. I love to guess. You look like you have at least a couple of brain cells. I can tell because of the glasses. Hmmm. Tax dodging? Nah, that’s too serious for community work. Computer hacking. Did you hack some bird’s webcam and watch her get undressed? You filthy bastard.”
I laughed. Well, I didn’t really laugh, I pretended to. I felt that is what he wanted.
“No come on spectacles. Tell me. What did you do? What brings you to our little family?”
“Erm… Arson,” I replied.
Ricky slumped back in his chair and fell silent for a moment. A few others on the bus were listening in and seemed equally surprised by my answer.
“Fucking hell mate. I’m not messing with you. What’s your name?”
“Chris.”
“Nah, Chris is too boring. For now on I’m going to call you Arson. Ha, I can’t believe we have an arsonist on our team. How cool is that?” He then slumped back on his seat.
I smiled. This time it was genuine. The next six months might not be so bad after all.
Dringo 