Why Make the Call?

I’m sorry that this is so soon after my last post but there has been one story that has dominated our news for the past three days and I need to comment.  

This story has been the front page headline in virtually every newspaper and has been the lead story in every television and radio news programme.  It has dominated every phone-in and discussion format.

Those of you resident in the UK, will already know that I am referring to the tragic event that culminated in the death of an 18-year-old student in Southampton.  There is one aspect of this case that bothers me, however.

To summarise the events of that evening, Henry Nowak was a student at Southampton University and was in his first year studying accountancy and finance.  One evening in December 2025, he met friends in a pub and at around 11 o’clock, left to walk home.  On his way through the Portswood area, he encountered Vickrum Digwa, a 23-year-old Sikh and his brother, Gurpreet.  

Words were exchanged that resulted in an altercation, during which Vickrum Digwa stabbed Nowak five times using a pesh-kabz, or maybe a shastar, martial blades, larger than the kirpan which Sikhs legally carry as prescribed by their Code of Conduct. 

After the fight was over, Gurpreet dialled 999 and reported to the police that he and his brother had been involved in a racial attack and asked for medical help.

When the police arrived and this is what has made the story so shocking and newsworthy, they immediately handcuffed and arrested Nowak, who was lying on the ground, dying.  Even after he had told them four times that he had been stabbed, they ignored him, siding with the Sikhs and treated it as a racial hate crime.

It is the attitude of the police that has caused all the acrimony, hostility and uproar.

Vickrum Gurpreet, the murderer was sentenced to 21 years imprisonment.  His brother is facing charges of possessing offensive weapons such as a baton and an axe in a private place,.

The aspect of the case that really bothers me and which no one has commented upon in the media, is why was that 999 call made and once it had been made, why did the murderer and his brother wait for more than10 minutes at the scene until the police arrived?  It almost appears that they were showing compassion towards their victim by making the call and ensuring that medical aid was on its way.

I have never before heard of a case in which a murderer acts in that way.  They always seem to leave the scene of the crime as fast as possible.  Their behaviour seems extraordinary.  Vickrum Digwa knew that the stab wounds would be discovered and that he or his brother were the only possible suspects and yet, rather than quickly leaving the scene, they hung around.  

Surely, they must have realised that a long prison sentence was inevitable for one or both of them when the police questioned them.  

While I’m on the subject of the police, in 2010, the ITV police series, “The Bill”, ended.  It had run since the mid 80s.

The opening credits of every one of the 2,400 episodes included shots, from their knees to the ground, of two police officers, a woman and a man walking along a pavement.  They were walking their beat.

If you are over 60 years old and watched BBC television from 1955 until 1976, you will recognise these lyrics to the theme of “Dixon of Dock Green”.

I’m an ordinary copper who’s patrolling his beat.
Around Dock Green.
’Hello, Mister Dixon!’ shout the kids in the street,
Around Dock Green.

The programme featured George Dixon, a police constable in his 50s who was honest, likeable and always trustworthy and dependable.  He had all the characteristics that every police officer should have.

Those words of the song epitomise what policing is meant to be all about.  Dixon was a local policeman who was known and trusted by everyone in Dock Green.  Above all, he was visible.  He walked his beat.

I honestly cannot remember the last time I saw a police officer who wasn’t sitting in a car.  Do the police still “walk the beat”?  It must be 40 years since I saw one.  I wonder if a teenager knows what is meant by a “beat”.

I have no idea what the average police constable does all day but I suppose that as offences that a “bobby on the beat” might deter, such as shoplifting and street knife crime are virtually unknown nowadays, there is absolutely no need for a visible police presence of any kind.

 

Muddle and Confusion

Do you ever use the same wrong word instead of the word that you should use?  Two of my friends often made that mistake and caused problems for themselves.

One of them was a teacher colleague of mine.  He was from Langho in Lancashire and was a staunch and passionate supporter of Blackburn Rovers. When he came to teach at Fortismere School in North London, he learnt very quickly that to admit to supporting any team other than Tottenham Hotspur was a big mistake.  Nonetheless, he was so used to saying  “Blackburn” in any conversation about football and it was so embedded in his consciousness, that he couldn’t stop doing it.

He told me of a lesson that deviated from his aims and degenerated into chaos because of a fierce argument that arose due to his carelessness when answering a question.

“Sir, do you think we’ll win on Saturday?”

“Should do. Leicester have got a terrible away record.”

“Eh?  What are you on about?  it’s us who’s away - at Chelsea.”

The other friend kept getting into trouble using the wrong word because he often called his second wife by his first wife’s name.  Sadly, for him there’s not much that can be done to put that right.

There must be a cause but I have no idea why it is that there are two words that I keep mixing up.  

Caroline and her friend, Denise, are walking the Greensand Ridge that runs through Buckinghamshire, Bedfordshire and Cambridge, stage by stage, over a number of Saturdays.  It’s a total distance of more than 40 miles.  I would join them but I have a sore toe and I’m really very disappointed indeed and devastated that I can’t join them.

Stage one is the nine miles from the southern end of the ridge, northeast to Woburn.  One Saturday morning at  9:30, they set off.  As I left the house to go shopping an hour later, I bumped into Patrick, our neighbour who asked after Caroline.

“She and her friend are doing the first stage of the Greensand Ridge walk stage from High Wycombe to Woburn,” I told him and Patrick was very impressed.

Last Friday, I left home to get a haircut.  I’ve told you before about Lena who is Romanian and who was recommended to me during the Covid lockdown.  Even though it’s a 32 mile round trip, I continue to support her through a sense of loyalty.  

I missed the exit from one of Milton Keynes’ many roundabouts and prepared to do a U-turn.  However, when I saw that the traffic on the other side of the road was stationary because of roadworks, I pulled over to look at the car’s satnav to see if there is an alternative route.  There is and as I don’t know Lena’s full address, I entered “High Wycombe” thinking I would recognise the route once I was close.

After driving for another half an hour, I was wishing that I had braved the log jam back at the roundabout where I had made the original mistake.  I was passing through village after village that I had never seen before.  

When I reached the town centre, I got out and asked a few people the way to Grovebury Park.  None of them had heard of it.

When I was young, about fifteen or sixteen years old, I had an almost uncanny sense of direction and distance.  It was so good that on family trips in the car, my Dad would never bother with a map but trust me instead.  I never remember being wrong.

I decided to see if I still possess those skills and drove in the direction that felt was right.  It soon became apparent that I don’t.  

I was in an electric Mini and was shocked to see that the range had dropped to 19 miles.  I stopped again and put “Home” into the satnav see how far away I was.  6 miles!  

I had driven for over an hour and was only 6 miles from where I had set off.  Then, I saw a road sign which read, “Milton Keynes 10 miles, Leighton Buzzard 4 miles.”

Leighton Buzzard!  That’s where Lena works - not High Wycombe, the town I put into the satnav - you stupid old fool.  

Those two towns are 30 miles apart and so why does it keep happening?  Why do I keep thinking of High Wycombe when it should be Leighton Buzzard?  What should have been a bit of a jaunt, ended up with me driving 77 miles in more than two hours.

I suppose that I’d better tell Patrick that after all, Caroline didn’t walk the 36 miles from High Wycombe to Woburn in 4 hours.  

Nine miles from Leighton Buzzard to Woburn is a fairly respectable trek though.

Ramble:

Here are a couple of thoughts I’ve had for the first time today.  Do you know the answer to either query?

 1. What is the origin of the meaning of the word “after” in the sentence, “I bumped into Patrick, our neighbour who asked after Caroline.”

2. Why is a person who runs a restaurant known as a “restaurateur” and not a “restauranteur” with an ‘n’.