WHEN I started my career as a young bobby at the local Nick, the smallest recruit in a force of large men, I wondered how the sergeants, who all looked so ancient, would ever survive in a roughhouse.

My doubts were soon dispelled when I had their help to move the "young bloods" off The Cross. Most of the three sergeants were built like giant oak barrels and a push from their belted bellies generally cleared the areas.

A particular favourite of mine used to bring sunshine to the Nick with his infectiously loud laugh. Even the prisoners seemed happier.

Should I have the pleasure of him visiting me on Rainbow Hill he would take me into the ice cream parlour on the top of the hill owned by a delightful couple named Mott.

We would sit on high stools watching the people pass by while we got stuck into beautiful yummy dishes of ice cream - police work at its best!

Another old stager we affectionately knew as "Daddy" used to visit us on a little motorcycle which was about the noisiest bike on the road.

We always had five minutes warning of his approach - very useful on occasions!

One old station sergeant we called "Nodder" because he would have 40 winks in his lunch break. Being young and insensitive when we saw the poor old chap was having a kip, we would slam a giant charge book on the desk near him and wake him up with a start!

He never complained - what a nice guy he was.

JOE WALTER,

Worcester.