Tapes then, you can never be too tired to listen to one of the society's wonderful tapes
Posts by Ellie
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42IT IS.....................
by defd in.
2:40 am and i am at work eating bar b q fritos, drinking a redbull and pepsi and typing this all at the same time.
what a job huh?.
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42
IT IS.....................
by defd in.
2:40 am and i am at work eating bar b q fritos, drinking a redbull and pepsi and typing this all at the same time.
what a job huh?.
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Ellie
You can never be too prepared Defd. you should know that, there are plenty of books and magazines articles you could be studying, to keep yourself spiritually strong.
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42
IT IS.....................
by defd in.
2:40 am and i am at work eating bar b q fritos, drinking a redbull and pepsi and typing this all at the same time.
what a job huh?.
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Ellie
Defd, couldn't you keep yourself occupied by preparing the watchtower or something?
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42
IT IS.....................
by defd in.
2:40 am and i am at work eating bar b q fritos, drinking a redbull and pepsi and typing this all at the same time.
what a job huh?.
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Ellie
LMAO
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Ellie
I don't think I need to say anymore Sam, you have proved my point perfectly.
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Ellie
Was it the fault of the Police that you were beaten in the first place? Apparently not. Did you know who beat you up? Did you make a statement and co-operate? My experience is that those who say "the Police did nothing" are the ones who don't WANT to help.
There is a finite number of officers and very occasionally all of them will be committed at incidents. All calls are prioritised and although the pensioner's call would have been graded as "Immediate Response", there is no accounting for the times when seven or eight "Immediates" come in at the same time. How do you tell the woman who has just been raped that you'll be back in half an hour because another job has come in.
While walking your dog how do you know that these officers weren't responding to a call for assistance at the station? I suspect that this happened once and this has been exaggerated into a regular occurence.
There are some who will always think the worst of the police, there isn't much we can do about it, except comfort ourselves with the thought that one day, they will have to swallow their pride and admit that they need the police after all!
In response to the observation that the majority of Police officers are "bloody idiots", the obvious response is that there is an idiot minority of the public and the police are the ones who have to deal with them. Perhaps you would like to have a go? -
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Ellie
I find your comments quite offensive Sam, do me a favour, when your beaten unconscious by a heroin fuled mugger or you return home from work to find some young thug helping himself to your tv, don't call 999, the 'filth' as you put it might want to ask some questions to help with their investigation.
Regarding your comments about the poor WPC murdered in Bradford, yes, the police do look after there own, well its not as if anyone else will is it.
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Ellie
You may find this interesting, I did..
Confessions From a Beat Cop
My name is Jill and I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse my self with my job almost as often as you do. The label "police officer" creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds. My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.
My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic. It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops. CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.
But I do have some confessions to make:
Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Boccelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.
Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenalin that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.
Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.
Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom. I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm. If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.
On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.
I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.
I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.
I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.
I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.
And I learned not to give up EVER! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.
One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate her work. Smile and say "Hi" when he's getting coffee. Bite your tongue when you start to tell a "bad cop" story. Better yet, find the time to tell a "good cop" story. The family at the next table may be a cop's family.
Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.
by Jill Wragg, retired police officer -
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hypochondria
by Ellie ini'm interested to know your views on this, do you think that jehovahs witnesses in general are more likely to be attention seeking hypochondriacs?
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Ellie
I'm interested to know your views on this, do you think that Jehovahs Witnesses in general are more likely to be attention seeking hypochondriacs?
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Do jws thrive on crisis?
by tall penguin ini've been thinking about this a lot lately.
in my experience, jws don't know how to handle joy but they're very willing to get pumped up when there is a crisis.
the whole religion centres around saving people from an impending destruction.
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Ellie
Yes I think they definately do, they think thats its acceptable and good to talk about everything negative in the world (just look at the way they talk to householders at the door) and yet if something good happens in the world they prefer to sweep it under the carpet as it could be evidence that the system isnt all bad.