Though mainly spoken about in hushed tones, many people of Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood) partake in the odd marijuana puff as a boredom-avoiding necessity.

About thirty years ago a mate of mine was sitting at the end of a deserted Chatswood station at 11:00pm. He was pretty pissed, pulled one of those boredom-avoiding joints out of his pocket, lit it and then heard the unseen cop laughing behind him ask “you serious boy?”

Within half an hour my extremely anxious mate was locked in the holding cell in Chatswood police station and a grumpy Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly was sitting at the desk on the other side of the bars filling out the paperwork.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “Weight?”

My mate – “108 kg.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly (with a chuckle) – “I’ll just tick the box that says fat fuck! Height?”

My mate (being as respectful as possible) – “Do I get a phone call?”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “This isn’t Las Vegas son. HEIGHT?”

My mate – “190cm.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly (rocking back in his chair) – “You a fucken comedian?”

My mate was unsure what he’d done to cause offence.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “NO FUCKING WAY YOU’RE 190cm. I’M 190. YOU’RE NOWHERE NEAR.”

My mate – “No, I’m definitely 190.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “PISS OFF. I’M NOT WRITING THAT SHIT DOWN.”

The other copper (speaking gently to my mate through the bars) – “Look here son, the last thing you want is to get the Sarge here pissed off. You sure you’re 190?”

My mate nodded.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “AH FUCK THIS.”

He snatched his baton off the table and rushed up to the cell. My mate nearly crapped himself.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “OPEN THE DOOR UP JOHNNY. THIS DOPE-SMOKING MOTHER FUCKER NEEDS SOME SORTING OUT!”

Other copper – “SARGE!! Settle down. Put the baton back on the table.”

Keep in mind readers this is all true. Things were different back then.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “OPEN THE DOOR JOHNNY. I’M NOT LETTING THIS PRICK TREAT ME LIKE AN IDIOT.” He slammed his baton against the bars and my mate leapt.

Other copper – “SARGE! It’s not worth it. Remember last year!”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “That was a bullshit charge and you know it, Johnny.”

Other copper – “Hey, I’m not your union rep. Calm down. Let’s give him another chance.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly was red-faced and his knuckles were white on the baton.

Other copper – “Any way you could be mistaken about your height?”

My mate – “Sorry… I’m 190.” He’d thought of changing his height, but then he would be lying to the coppers.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly belted his baton against the cell door again. The noise struck into my mate’s very soul.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “Open the door, Johnny. NOW.” He pointed at the other copper with the no-doubt-often-wielded baton. The door was opened.

My mate was about to piss.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “FACE THE BACK WALL, MISTER-SMART-AS-FUCK-190.”

My mate spun around.

He heard some shuffling sounds. Facing the wall, shaking like a dog shitting he felt something warm push up against the whole length his body. It was like he was being standing-up-spooned. This certainly did nothing for his nerves. He felt like Ned Beatty without a canoe.

Then he realised what was happening.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly had removed his boots and was standing back-to-back with him, comparing heights. My mate had already removed his shoes because they confiscated his belt and laces, so they kept falling off. The other copper carefully placed the baton on the top of both their heads to test their relative heights.

Other copper – “Oh jeez Sarge (he squinted as he analysed the flatness of the baton) it’s pretty close. I think he actually could be 190.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “PIG’S ARSE! CHECK HIS HEELS! ARE THEY ON THE GROUND PROPERLY?”

The other copper gave a nod of confirmation.

My mate could feel the tension in Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly’s buttocks as, like a six-year-old getting his height marked on the growth chart in his kitchen, he stretched his spine as long as it could go.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “PUSH HIS GODDAMN HAIR DOWN.”

About three hours later my mate was released. He was shuffling out of the cell area when he heard them talking.

Other copper – “Hey Sarge… you wrote his height as 189.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly (yelling back) – “HE WAS LIFTING HIS HEELS!”

My mate walked down the street, a broken man. His shoes nearly falling off, jeans hanging low, laces and belt in his hand.

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Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to be able to claim when meeting a new person at a Hornswood party, that I am in fact… a writer (whereby my wife generally jumps in and proclaims “he’s actually NOT a writer”). If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small companies, but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I have set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers