Why You Should Keep a 'Raise an Eyebrow' Diary

Everyone should keep a ‘raise an eyebrow’ diary. I did.

On my first day as a rookie cop, I walked into the police office and had my first ‘raise an eyebrow’ moment before I even got started. I went home, told my family and they all said, ‘WTF’. Then we had a good laugh.

It happened a lot. Some people are prone to stepping into a puddle or standing on a jobbie. One cop I knew was the type of guy who would jump the puddle land on a jobbie and slip back into the puddle.

So I kept a note of all those eyebrow-raising moments: the bizarre, the funny, the astonishing.

When I published my first police memoir I didn't hold back. No stories were too embarrassing, nothing too sacred. I bared our bums — pimples and all. My only concession, I changed the names to protect the idiots.

I was clever about it. Most of the guys knew who they were or could figure out who I was talking about. Anyone who knew Sergeant Sinclair C5, for example, would have a harder job painting their toenails than figuring out who I was referring to.

We called him Sergeant Sinclair C5 as he was small, useless, and had no control.

I was upfront about it. In my introduction, I apologized to any colleagues who recognized themselves:

“If I have embellished a story about you and you take offence, I’m sorry. If the story is true, and you still take offence, then you only have yourself to blame.”

The people I worked with could easily identify themselves: Sgt. Napoleon, PC Penfold, Inspector Deadpan Dick, Chief Inspector Chumley, they all knew who they were.

The stories were about them and the things they did. They weren’t likely to forget those, or so I thought.

Last night I attended a presentation dinner at a police sports club event. Peter, a retired inspector, began with a story:

“Once upon a time, I was an inspector in charge of the custody suite. Two cops escorted Sheila, a young adult, through to the waiting room. I saw she was struggling to stop crying. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. Sheila struggled to control herself as the tears made tracks through her mascara down her cheeks.

“‘There, there,’ I soothed her, ‘it can’t be as bad as all that. You have a wonderful event to look forward to.’ She looked up puzzled. Then as the realization hit her, she again burst into tears. Great big sobs, ‘Mwah mwah,’ she bubbled before replying, ‘I’m not pregnant, I’m just fat!’”

PC Prim was sitting next to me; he couldn’t contain himself. He burst out laughing, so hard he spurted his wine across the table.

I thought Peter's story was funny, but not that funny. Or maybe I was inured to it because I'd written about it in my memoir. I asked him what the matter was.

“I can’t believe it, exactly the same thing happened to me.”

I was puzzled, and more than a little curious.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. You even wrote about it in your book.”

“Yes, I know. I was there when it happened, but that wasn’t you.”

“What do you mean it wasn’t me?”

“I was there when it happened to Peter. He was so embarrassed that night I’m surprised he is telling everyone about it now.”

“But you wrote that it happened to Inspector Deadpan Dick?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Peter is Deadpan Dick.”

“But I thought I was Deadpan Dick?”

“No, you are PC Prim.”

“PC Prim?”

The cogs in his brain turned slowly.

“… but PC Prim was an idiot!”

“Go figure!”

Another raised eyebrow!