THE DAD BEAT
Harry de Quetteville’s tales from the fatherhood front line
“Look, Daddy,” says Mole, staring out of our bedroom window, “An unmarked police car!”
I peek out. There they are – two gents parked up in a sporty little number. The monsters have learned to spot laminated ID badges dangling around necks. They recognise how, with the flick of a switch, ordinary orange indicator lights can become flashing blue beacons of the Met. They say “undercover” with practised ease. They are four and six, true children of south London.
My mother-in-law, calling from the country, thankfully no longer mentions the latest quadruple murder around our way. What is there to say?
The violence added a certain spice to Hallowe’en last week. When the bell rang insistently at 9.45pm, and the shadows on the glass indicated trick-or-treaters closer to 15 than five, I paused.
Of course, the only offence that evening was bad manners – the girl who simply stuck out her hand and said: “Chocolate”. But the puritan in me bridled. I’m no lover