Waiting for the Rozzers

 A nasty little letter popped through the letterbox in our new home. It was from the TV Licensing people, addressed to "The Legal Occupier" and claiming that, because no-one had answered their enquiries, they were going to send round "an Officer" who might visit any day of the week, morning or evening, to see if we were watching anything we should not be.

Obviously the previous letters had not been answered because there was no occupier. This is a new-build house on a new estate. One might have thought the licencing people might realise that, but clearly no. In their eyes, the second the final decorator leaves with a cheery "All finished, mate", the licence-dodgers crowd in around the telly and gleefully devour EastEnders, bathed in the warm glow of not having paid for a licence. 

As it happens I do have a licence, transferred from my old address. But I have no way of telling the licencing people. The letter, signed by a Jane Jeffers, Enforcement Manager, Birmingham, has no address, phone number, email or any other contact details. Indeed, I have no evidence that Ms Jeffers exists at all ¹and she may be simply the name given to a stuffed doll residing on top of the cupboard in the Enforcers' Lounge somewhere in that grim Brummie office block. Therefore I can do nothing but wait the arrival of the Officer, whom I shall warmly greet, show off my TV and inform that "Yes, we watch it all the time, young sir, but really standards have slipped since that nice Michael Fish retired, what are are you going to do about that?"

And when he smiles his evil, gotcha, smile and reaches for his clipboard, I shall casually add "By the way, would you like to see my licence?". The light will fade from his slitted eyes, his fingers will twitch, the stub of pencil will drop to the floor and he will sigh a long and disillusioned sigh. "It's all right", I will add reassuringly "Ms Jeffers knows all about it, but it was not possible to tell you before your long journey from Birmingham because, as you know, she does not make it possible for anyone to contact her".

And he will grind his tea-stained teeth and take a deep breath and begin packing up his detecting equipment, muttering about "always the last to know, bloody head office" and probably won't even touch the biscuit I was offering. Just as well though, month-old Jammie Dodgers do go a bit soft.

1.  Update - I searched for Jane on the web and found a post, very similar in tone to mine, written a couple of years ago. But the author of this piece lives in Wales and his letter (or indeed, letters, for he has received several) are signed Jane Jeffers, Enforcement Manager, Cardiff. Was she promoted after her excellent work in Cymru, or was it a sideways move? Had she made too many enemies and was being placed out of harm's way? Or does she cover both regions? 

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Readers!  Join our exciting "Hunt the Jeffers" competition. Send in your sightings of Jane to the usual address and one of you will be the lucky winner of a genuine copy of the letter she sent to me!

The winner will be selected by the time-honoured way of chucking all entries into the Editor's wastebin and then picking the one at the top. 

Terms and Conditions apply. You must have a licensed copy of the T&Cs to be eligible and our Officers may visit any time, day or night, to see that you do. Authentic copies are only available from Ramblings Enterprises, priced at a very reasonable £25 (plus VAT, service charge, convenience fee, reservation fee, import duties and slush-fund contribution).