Dear Diary 1

Brecon, or more specifically the street where I live, is a place of Policing anomalies. 

On Sunday, a pupil from the local private school dials 999 with a hoax call to the Police saying he can hear gun shots in the boarding houses where he lives. He looked very surprised indeed when the Rapid Response Unit arrived 10 minutes later, kicked the doors down and stormed the house with very powerful hand guns and semi automatics and did a systematic sweep of every room.

Eventually they found the bored little rich brat sitting on his bed with his mouth gaping and flapping open and closed like a freshly landed guppy on the river bank; his phone still in his hand and was apparently peeing fear like a cart horse.

He pleaded mitigating circumstances and named them as: too much alcohol and the fact that he was bored. He was asked that if he should fail to mention anything now that may help in his case, then everything else would be used against him. Sadly in the state od deep shock he was in he plain forgot to mention that Daddykins and the Home Secretary share the same London club.

And that probably why the Police dragged the over privileged, over pampered and under educated little Lord Foltneroy off to the local nick to have his manicured finger tips recorded, his mug shots taken and his silver spoon removed from his mouth and impounded until further notice.

Next day the CID send a truck load of officers on a door to door search for a stolen pair of mens' underwear, because a resident had reported them missing and would quite like them back. He even furnished the officers with a recent photo and an artist impression of the underpants.

God I love this town.