The police force in the UK has a new weapon to fight crime: the cardboard cut-out.

Police forces have spent more than £20,000 on cardboard cut-outs of uniformed officers designed to confuse criminals.

It was billed as the latest police tactic to combat crime and now the idea has taken off nationwide.

Police figures show that forces across the country have spent more than £20,000 on the flat-pack PCs.

It must be a considerable relief to British taxpayers to know that two dimensional replicas are on the job terrifying would-be criminals, freeing up their three dimensional counterparts to pursue the criminal hard-cases:

Beach bobbies: Police officers use hand-held cameras to trap cyclists speeding along seafront

Police were today accused of wasting taxpayers’ cash by stopping cyclists accused of speeding.

Officers armed with hand-held speed cameras are catching bikers who exceed the 10mph limit on Bournemouth’s promenade.

A uniformed PC will hide behind a beach hut and, when he spots an errant cyclist, radio a council ‘seafront ranger’ waiting 200 yards down to request that they are stopped.

Carol Anne Duffy, a bisexual 53 year old is the new Poet Laureate:

Her predecessors stretch in an illustrious line all the way back to 1688.

But as she was appointed Poet Laureate yesterday, Carol Ann Duffy, the first woman to hold the post, insisted she will be carving out her own path.

Verses on demand for royal occasions, she declared, are simply not her style.

‘I don’t have to write anything about anything if I don’t want to,’ she told Radio Four’s Woman’s Hour programme.

Yesterday her appointment to the ten-year £5,000-a-year post was welcomed by Gordon Brown.

‘She is a truly brilliant modern poet who has stretched our imaginations by putting the whole range of human experiences into lines that capture the emotions perfectly,’ he said.

Lines like:

‘Today I am going to kill something. Anything/I am tired of being ignored and today/I am going to play God.’

I expect that has captured Gordon Brown’s emotions perfectly considering his plummeting popularity.

One of my favourite poems is “Stuffed”; here is an excerpt – plagiarised from The Idiot’s Guide to Taxidermy:

I put two yellow peepers in an owl.
Wow. I fix the grin of Crocodile.
Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel.
I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule.
Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull.
Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull.

I have it on good authority that the Queen is secretly relieved that Duffy won’t be putting pen to paper for royal occasions.

I celebrated it by turning on my gaming computer with its 1KW power supply and using it to find out who started the nonsense.

One of the founders of Earth Day was Ira Einhorn. In 1977 Ira bludgeoned his girlfriend, Holly Maddux to death and stuffed her body in a trunk. 18 months later, when other tenants in his apartment building complained about the smell, Holly’s mummified remains were discovered. Ira is now serving a life sentence in a state prison; I understand his cell has a low wattage light bulb.

Clearly, the green thing to do would have been to bury the body in the ground: Ira was blazing the trail of hypocrisy – albeit in a rather disagreeable way – for the tartuffes who were to follow: Al Gore, David Suzuki  and most of the dignitaries of mainline churches.

My father-in-law, John, is 86 years old, can no longer walk, has largely lost control of his bodily functions and suffers from chronic arthritis. He also suffers from dementia so, although we can still recognise the person that we once knew within his disintegrating body, much of the time he does not know who we are. He has lost some of his ability to use language so  only half the words he uses are recognisable; a part of him realises this and he becomes very frustrated at his inability to communicate.

His dementia can appear comical: he often phones us at 6:00 a.m. to tell us he can’t find his left toe. He regaled me a few months ago with the tale of how, yesterday, he had been in a plane crash and had smashed one of the windows to help people out of the burning aircraft onto the wing and then to safety.

His heart is strong and his blood pressure is enviably low so he could live for years; in his cogent moments he questions why he is still alive. A man who led a productive life, built houses, ran a business, helped others, was a loving husband and father reduced to an immobile shell that has to wear diapers.

The question is, is his life worth any less than yours or mine? The fact that he is still alive and that he is created in God’s image tells me that his life is worth as much as anyone’s. And this is why he and others like him must be treated with the dignity due to an image bearer of the Divine.

He is presently in a nursing home, Northridge Long Term Care. This is my first encounter with a nursing home and its nightmarish Kafkaesque administration. In the last week we have seen the following:

My father-in-law has to be lifted from his bed to his wheelchair with a hoist operated by 2 people; in the process of moving him to his chair, his hand became jammed between the chair and the bed. It became swollen but was not treated by a doctor; we were not informed of the accident.

Although my wife visits her father every couple of days, she has also hired a private care worker to sit with him, talk to him and take him to activities. A few days ago, we had a call from the private care worker to tell us that John was experiencing tremors and was unresponsive. There was no call from the nursing home; phone calls to the nursing home’s administration yielded an answering machine; calls were not returned. My wife drove to the nursing home to find out what had happened. The nurse in charge informed my wife that, at lunch, the activities coordinator could not find a pulse in her father, so he took John to the nursing station and they took him back to his room. At this point he was unresponsive and shaking; my wife asked for a doctor; the nurse in charge did not page the doctor (the Director of Care later told us that there isn’t much point, since he doesn’t usually respond). Florence Nightingale then informed my wife that there “did seem to be something wrong”. An ambulance was called and he was taken to the hospital; tests ended up showing that he had a high temperature and was suffering from a fever; the nursing staff at Northridge had assured my wife that he had a normal temperature.

After this little adventure, John, returned to the nursing home. Northridge, who by now are a little twitchy about calling us, phoned to say John had fallen out of bed. After my wife went to investigate, the Director of Care declared that he had “climbed over the bed railing”. The absurdity of this is fairly apparent since John can’t even sit up on his own: someone had forgotten to put the bed rail up. In falling out of bed, John had injured his leg; the injury had not been treated. While my wife was there, John expressed a need to have a bowel movement – this takes a hoist and 2 people; my wife informed the staff who said they “would be right there”. After 20 minutes, no-one had appeared. To make matters worse, the staff has complained that John often soils himself.

Many of the workers at Northridge are decent, caring and hard-working; nevertheless, there are not enough workers and the administration appears bungling and indifferent.

John has a family who love him and are prepared to do what it takes to make sure he gets decent care. Many in Northridge cannot move or speak and have no-one to stand up for them: God help them.

Our elderly deserve better.