‘Yes, you can report it, but it’s going to take ten minutes to go through the process,’ said the oppressively cheerful bureaucrat at Surrey Police when I rang to tell them about my stolen saddle.
After the first 30 seconds I could see why. She kept asking me to verify that I was all right — still coping, still breathing, still pumping blood around my body — after every sentence. For example:
‘I just need to take your name and address. Is that all right? I need to open a file and log your personal details. Is that OK?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I said, before telling her my name and address, which prompted a lot of tapping.
‘If I go silent… then it’s just because… I’m typing. Is that all right? Are you OK with that?’
‘Yes,’ I said, rather testily, envisaging not ten minutes on the phone but ten hours.
‘Right, that’s good.
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