From “talent spotting” women to endless lewd banter, the everyday misogyny I witnessed in my time as a special constable was a sign of a broken force
Putting on a police uniform for the first time is a peculiar experience. It feels like fancy dress, like a joke taken too far. Boots, trousers, shirt, necktie, kit belt, stab vest, hat – and a face hidden somewhere in the middle of it all, lost among the black, white and blue. The police uniform transforms a stranger into a familiar figure, a person into a personification. As a police officer, you become someone less specific. But what you lose in individuality, you gain in access to other individuals. In uniform you can talk to anyone and anyone can talk to you.
“Nice to see you, officer. How you doing? All right? … Quiet, yeah. Too quiet if you ask me.”
