I have been a neighbourhood PC for four years, in a police force savaged by cuts. I’ve just been told that I will have to reapply for my job because my patch is being combined with the next. If I keep my job, I’ve been told to prepare for less response officers and more working alone – known as single crewing.

Like every other force we anticipated a massive 40% reduction in our budget in the last round of cuts. “Luckily” it has only been 20%, but that means job have had to go. It’s hard to be motivated by crime fighting and justice any more; instead we shoot from job to job, firefighting with dwindling resources.

I’m responsible for maintaining a police presence in an area that has historically been extremely hostile towards us. I start the day by reading my daily corporate diet of faceless, all-user emails from HQ. Alone, I review the briefings that warn me of several crime sprees we seem powerless to prevent, and then I head out.





I’m constantly contacted by the control room via my radio. The response team – whose job it is to go to the 999 calls – is short-staffed again and they want me to help out. In my area there are only eight officers on response for a population close to 130,000 people.

I can’t attend the jobs because there aren’t enough vehicles, as usual. With no-one able to respond, The control sergeant manages to downgrade both jobs from immediate to urgent, giving the response team an hour to get there, rather than 15 minutes.

Some of the jobs don’t receive attention for days as there aren’t enough officers to respond.

As I walk to my patch I’m joined by a community support officer (PCSO) and we see a group of teens terrorising the town centre. They ride bikes on the pavement, assault other children and generally cause havoc to other members of the public. I spot one of the kids with whom I have a decent rapport. He’s wearing police custody flip flops as he’s just been released from custody and we’ve seized all his other shoes.



He’s a clever kid and funny too. We drag him to a sports shop and buy him a pair of trainers. I leave a message on his social worker’s voicemail, but they’re as stretched as we are.

As I patrol I can feel eyes staring at me. I’m a rare sight. Five years ago there were two neighbourhood PCs per area. Most areas have already been amalgamated and most have one PC left, with two or maybe three PCSOs per area. In the rural part of the county it’s even worse so I should count myself lucky. Literally hundreds of miles of quaint countryside have one stressed PC.

The area I police is predominantly Muslim, and I think it’s important to be able to relate to and understand the locals. But I have so little time to understand what’s causing crime there. The main way we’re encouraged to engage with the public is via social media, which, as we lose more officers, seems to have replaced actual interaction. Our force has just discovered social media and we now spew out corporate messages designed to be PR friendly and extremely tame, to conceal the fact that we’re sinking.

Back at the nick I hang up my stabbie and a colleague tells me he’s leaving after obtaining qualifications elsewhere. He’s the latest in a long list of people getting out.

I walk past the fresh young faces of the probationers coming on for the late shift. How long until they are jaded like me? It’s been a long time since I was excited or proud of my job. I wish I could provide the service the public deserves, but I can’t.



This series aims to give a voice to the staff behind the public services that are hit by mounting cuts and rising demand, and so often denigrated by the press, politicians and public. If you would like to write an article for the series, contact kirstie.brewer@theguardian.com

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