Ever since I can remember, my middle daughter has had her heart set on joining the police. Throughout school she read endless books, and watched innumerable television programmes - and then went on to college where she studied uniformed services - a combined course comprising law, criminology, psychology, the media, and everything else involved in her eventual aim.
I several years ago a community policing programme visited the green outside our house. Our daughter disappeared mid-morning, and we presumed she might be too nervous to talk to real police officers. We forgot all about it until early afternoon, and looked out of the window to see her engaged in discussion with a weary looking senior police officer. I pulled my shoes on, and wandered out to rescue him.
“Your daughter’s knowledge of police work is frightening!”
“I’m so sorry!”
“No, not a bit of it - it’s good to know the service will be in good hands one day!”
And then she finished college with stunning exam results, and applied to join. And got nowhere - because of course the police can’t take people straight from college. It makes sense - you need life experience - it’s perhaps more important than any textbook or course.
While disappointed, she started thinking about what she might do next. Rather than do nothing, she took a job at a local pub - the perfect place to get life experience, and instead learned about dysfunctional organisations, broken staff, and abusive customers. After surviving that for a year, she walked into a job at a local café, and is still there now - originally hired with the promise of learning to cook, but eventually facing a wall of washing up ever day.
While treading water - going nowhere fast - the cogs started turning again, and her focus turned to the army. In many ways she’s become the square peg that’s discovered the square hole made perfectly for her. We’re half-way through the sign-up procedure at the moment (for the second time - another story for another day) - and she has a target to reach in time for the next round of inductions. A body mass index target.
She’s never been slim. Never been skinny. And yet if you ever wanted anybody to perform a feat of superhuman strength while cornered - she’s the most likely candidate you might ever imagine.
Many years ago - when she was little - we visited a recreation of an iron-age village, where she took part in numerous activities during the day. One of the activities involved making wattle and daub walling for a house - with liquid mud that the children were told included horse manure. She heaved repeatedly, but carried on - doggedly - not wanting to let anybody down.
Anyway.
She’s been on a mission for the last several months - getting up at 6am, going to “boot camp”, cutting out rubbish from her diet, and now running too.
A few nights ago my other half quietly asked if I might invite her to go running with me. She’s always sought my approval, so it might be an easy win. The night before last, while washing up in the kitchen before dinner I asked her if she wanted to head out for a run - expecting laughter.
“Ok!”
My other half shouted through from the lounge;
“I’ll finish making dinner for you”
And that’s how we found ourself stood outside a few minutes later in shorts and waterproof coats (it was raining), with head torches on, in the early winter evening.
She ran 3 kilometres. I ran 5. After cajoling her through those first three kilometres, I carried on - surprising myself enormously. I worried as I ran from her that my actions might be counter-productive, but not a bit of it. She has another target - me. She wants to run as far as I can. Further than I can.
Tomorrow morning we’re going again. Another few kilometres around town before breakfast - with the promise of a cooked breakfast at the end - at the cafe where she works.
I’m looking forward to it.