An open letter from the kettle to a policeman

24 November 2010, London

Dear Sir,

I happened to see you today around Whitehall. You didn’t seem to see me. I was right in front of you, maybe a couple of feet away. I was blowing my breath on your yellow uniform. I tried to talk to you. But I guess you weren’t there. Talking to a uniform is a silly thing to do, when there is no one inside it.

I saw the nice present you left for us. I can’t even afford a bike, I wasn’t hoping for a van. I just wondered, why did you leave it there for us? I thought you didn’t trust us, I thought you were able to see among our colorful crowd the scary hoods of those thugs everyone talks about. Maybe, you just wanted us to play with it, while you and your friends where watching us from a few meters away. Well, we did. I guess it’s 1-0 for you, daddy.

You don’t mind me calling you daddy. Because you have children, don’t you? Do you play with them like you played with us today? Do you lock them in their room, with no heating, and let them starve and piss themselves until they decide to behave? And what do you tell your mates at the pub, when you get off duty and take off your shiny uniform? Maybe you happened to lock their children together with us in the room. And what do they tell you? Probably nothing, because you have the badge, you have the taser and the baton. Sometimes you remind me of a nightmarish christmas tree, with all your hurtful decorations.

But I know you are not like that. I know that when you take off your helmet you still have a face. And I am worried for you. That mask you put on is not good for you. When you have it on, you turn just like those people that come back drunk from the pub and have a ‘discussion’ with their wife and children.

One day we’ll have to stop you, you know. We have to help you. Maybe they haven’t yet invented a rehab for people with your type of addiction. I guess you will have to fight this battle on your own. It won’t be easy, but you are a strong person. At least, I hope, just as strong as you were with those people that today tried to escape your ‘kettle’. What a nice name, kettle. I guess you had to borrow a name for your new invention from the kitchenware, as you couldn’t find one in the codes of law.

I know, I know. When you’re drunk you think you can do everything. And for that I can’t blame you alone. Your drinking club is a very nasty one. Why don’t you leave it?  Those people there changed you. They blinded you. You couldn’t even see me, today, when I was just two feet away form you. You have to forgive me for my shyness, for my inability to help you the only way I can. You have to forgive me for not having torn that helmet off your head, for not having awakened you.

Rest now, daddy. You need a good night of sleep. The hangover, tomorrow, won’t be a nice one. On the tube, on the streets, people will read it on your face. They will recognize you. And you will see them. I hate to say it, daddy, but at that point it might be too late for you to come back to me and ask for my forgiveness.

Federico Campagna

 Henry Hartley