IT was just after 10pm on a Sunday when the Scala Cinema closed, and like most nights after the war, the place had been packed.

Soon after the patrons had stood for the National Anthem and piled out in their droves, a large van arrived outside and the driver took the films for next week up to the projection room.

I toddled away dressed in my police night gear to look at the people in the Angel Place bus queues and started talking to my new mother-in-law who had been to the pictures.

I then saw that the driver of the van who had obviously delivered our enjoyment for the next week to the Scala having a difficult job trying to reverse his lorry from the back of a bus that had hemmed him in. Being a helpful type of bloke I went over, and with shouts of encouragement and hand-waving, manoeuvred him out.

With a last wave and a chirpy "cheery-ho" I sent him on his way joyfully... more so than I had realised. Soon after, a noisy bell attached to the police post on The Cross started clanging and I hurried up Angel Street to answer it.

"Hello Sarg," I said over the phone "what's the problem?" "Keep an eye out for the lorry that's just delivered the Scala's films. Someone has just nicked it!"

"Sarg, you ain't going to believe this..."

Oh well. Some you win and sadly others go horribly pear-shaped.

JOE WALTER,

Worcester.