Belief

Colin Potts QPM

Description

Colin Potts' autobiography begins with an account of family life during the Second World War for a mother widowed in 1941 and her six children. Colin was one of those children, and from poverty he progressed to become one of the country's top cops. He describes encounters with unlikely yet influential people, near-death situations and inexplicable incidents. During thirty-five years spent amidst hurly-burly scenes of policing, Colin was in the front line of many different aspects of police work. His colleagues vented their true feelings in times of extreme stress together with their ever-present humour, and examples of their human touches bring colour to an otherwise black-and-white world within a disciplined public service. After leaving the police service, working in the NHS exposed him to a debilitating nineteenth century management regime, about which he is critical. The central thread throughout Colin's life has been the importance of belief in others, and face-to-face social contacts. His story demonstrates the importance of proximity and the transformative effect of personal interactions, all of which combine to nurture and improve quality of life. Throughout his career he took these issues into Parish Policing with remarkable success.

Sujets

• Lettres et linguistique

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 19 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780722350386
• Langue: English

Extrait

Belief
Lifetime Recollections
Colin Potts, QPM




Published in 2020 by
Arthur H. Stockwell Ltd
Torrs Park, Ilfracombe
Devon, EX34 8BA
www.ahstockwell.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Colin Potts, QPM
The right of Colin Potts, QPM to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.



Introduction
The majority of people who write an account of their life story appear to be a mixture of recognisable celebrities, those who have achieved some form of notoriety that some people would find interesting or those who have excelled in a walk of life that they have been engaged in. I can’t lay claim to any of those, but what they all have in common is that no two life stories are the same.
I wrote my life story by accident. During my final week before retiring as the security manager at a large NHS trust my colleagues were anxious for me to give them time to chat over some of the interesting issues I had dealt with throughout my career. I had worked as their security manager for eighteen years, and they were vaguely aware of some of my previous job experiences. They were also intrigued about incidents that had come my way, and they were keen to grill me about my policing career as they suspected there were some juicy bits lurking in the shadows which by my nature I had never brought to light. They were all bound together by a belief that I had augmented many changes for the better at their hospital and they didn’t want to miss their last opportunity to gain the truth about incidents they had only gained information about through the ‘grapevine’. They made their way in groups of two or three to my office, made themselves comfortable and eagerly waited for me to skip through my life story. Or was it the tea and biscuits? As it happened, it didn’t really matter as they were consumed by their own silence and listened intently. Whilst it was uncharted territory, I quickly recognised that they started to exude the youthful innocence and wonderment I first encountered when I told bedtime stories to my daughter and granddaughter. For those who have never had to undertake this task I would implore you to seize any opportunity offered which effectively allows you to hold your audience in some kind of spellbound trance with the result being delivered the following night when your presence becomes a necessity; not to be available for another rendition is not recommended if you want to maintain domestic harmony. At that point I felt stirrings of interest in committing my exploits to a more permanent record. Nevertheless the above reasons wouldn’t sustain my interest to reach into the past, but the pendulum to feed inspiration lay closer to home insofar that I realised ancestry information within our family was extremely sparse with my daughter and family settling in France and two of my three sisters settling with their families in Canada. The scene was firmly set; all that was necessary was to devote time and effort. That was the easy bit.
I always felt that of the six children in our family I was the least communicative, often dismissing interest in myself by informing others that I am just an old plod who just happens to have won life’s lottery. That conceals the real me. My life has had many twists and turns, some death-defying, some with experiences that belong in another world that I still don’t understand, some commenting about the human feelings of police officers in times of stress and their humour, including some inspirational moments and some extremely gut-wrenching and very sad incidents.
Against this background and intertwined with these experiences, my upbringing during my early years is coloured by the Second World War, food rationing (including other essential life-supporting items) and the discipline required within a family of three sisters and two brothers. This family and community social experience is now largely lost in time, but in recalling some facts they give colour to a most austere black-and-white existence, which was endured by many. The effects of our early domestic existence seemed to predetermine our journeys along our separate paths – and for me particularly as my journey arose out of abject poverty, sacrifice, persistence and unpredictable situations which brought out some great human qualities that I wouldn’t fully appreciate until later in life. Other very important influences that crashed into my life were often in the form of inspirational people from the most improbable sources. Their wisdom, advice, patience, humour and belief often in unlikely situations were again only appreciated by me much later in life.
But my story isn’t unique. It may at times stretch the imagination, but I believe that in the twenty-first century there are legions of people who are in situations which allow greater flexibility over their time, and many will have tremendously worthy stories that their families and maybe the book-reading section of our society would find interesting and absorbing. To them my simple message is find a pen or let your fingers run riot across the typewriter keys. I have made every effort to avoid making any political comment, and where villains appear in recent times I haven’t revealed their identities. This didn’t blunt my energy to discover that spark of belief in others and create what influence you are able to give. It could be that there are parents who are unsung heroes and will forever remain so although they are an ever present shining example to their family – such as my mother, Alice. You could be struggling at school or doing a ‘nothing’ job or not able to get employed or feel you have lost your way, or suffocating because a loss of direction or guidance has culminated in a loss of will or the courage to take a new direction in life . Everyone has the ability to influence others, and sometimes this is all it takes to make a difference. Believe you can do it and you have already made that all-important start. But this belief has a double edge. It is that which others invest in you and conversely what you can invest in others. My story also reveals that this help manifests itself in the most unusual circumstances. Blink and that moment may be lost. Lose concentration at your peril. There is no substitute for staying alert, so take advantage of those glimmers of inspiration and be aware they may come from the most unlikely sources. Your contribution, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you, could be that small yet significant life changer to others. To this end change is often driven by criticism, and my opinions attempt to reveal shortcomings with constructive comments to feed change in an endeavour to foster improvements . My story begins as basically a simple story about country folk. As it progresses it gives me the opportunity to remind us of changes in life that are seeping into our social fabric, creating social disconnects about which we are largely aware – though we may be unaware of the lasting effects of this creeping disease. My theme of keeping things simple as a key to success is supported by my actions to acknowledge the value of face-to-face social interactions and the often unrecognised importance of location, which I refer to and demonstrate as the positive transformative effect of proximity.
My story could have been set in the 1830s as often depicted in the novels of Catherine Cookson because our domestic scene seemed to be trapped in that era, but I begin 100 years later. My mother and father were living in a small two-up-and-two-down cottage in the countryside near Middlewich in mid Cheshire. My two brothers and two sisters (sister Ellen Anne was to arrive in 1947) ensured that the house was in continuous chaos, but this was our normal. I was the fourth child. Dad was a farm labourer and my mother kept her brood well fed, though mainly on very basic food, and dressed in clothes that today would be refused by some of our high-street charity shops. Our existence was influenced by the Second World War and the breadline level of income labouring classes were struggling with.
In this family circle my mother’s words were not to be disobeyed; she managed to keep us generally out of trouble and maintained family discipline. She was always in charge, and she had a physical presence of authority, usually wrapped in an apron with her hair kept in check by a turban. She had to make some difficult decisions, yet somehow she managed to retain that caring love of a mother hen. The Second World War was starting to impact on our lives. We all thought it exciting, but that wouldn’t last. Dad died suddenly in 1941. Without any income to sustain the family, my mother took some drastic actions to keep her family together. Whilst we all struggled to live with her actions, we ultimately accepted that she didn’t have any alternative. Her own personal sacrifice must have been enormous, but her indomitable spirit didn’t include quitting; and against wh