CRB checks: of course be thorough . . . but come on . . .

In 2002, when I applied to work in an organisation which looked after elderly and vulnerable people, I was required to undergo a CRB check with enhanced disclosure. With the forms duly completed, partly by me and partly by my employer (in no time at all - well almost), we sat back and waited . . .

and waited . . .

but was I concerned? No. Because, being the morally (some might say, boringly) upright citizen I am - I've never had any contact with officers of the law, except for the purposes of researching a novel, once or twice. I don't have any points on my driving licence - and for the cynical amongst you, it's not because I've paid someone to take the rap for me - what do think I am, a footballer?

OK, I did once get a parking ticket for stopping on a double-yellow stripy thing once in Brighton, when I got caught short. It turned out to be the most expensive bloody 'penny' I ever spent. Then there was that time on the one-way system in Wimbledon (and if you're at all familiar with the area you'll know exactly what I'm talking about). Through the post I received this grainy image, resembling an old Polaroid (supposedly me hunched over the wheel of my rusty yet trusty Mondeo) together with a demand for a hundred quid for DRIVING IN A BUS LANE.

BUS LANE? CALL THAT A BUS LANE? What, for a Dinky toy, or what? Honestly, it's about ten feet long, with absolutely no advance warning until you're on top of the thing. What do they expect you to do? Swerve into the other lane of traffic and cause an eight vehicle pile-up? I was livid, of course. But, being the upright citizen I am (did I mention that already?) I paid up, meek as a lamb. And moaned about it incessantly for years to come. See, I'm still doing it now.

None of which has anything to do with my eagerly awaited 'enhanced disclosure'.

So anyway we waited. We waited three months. Then six. Nothing. Zilch. F--- all. Then the lovely lady who'd agreed to take me on, chased it up with those in 'the know.' Supposedly. There had been a bit of a backlog evidently. We were told we needed to be patient. (Of that there was no doubt. 'Patience' became my middle name, by default.) On the stroke of seven months, said lovely lady told me she couldn't wait any longer for me - and hired somebody else. Boo, hiss. I could hardly blame her. Meantime, I was doing another job. One that didn't require an ED: delivering flowers. I'd waited so long to adopt my 'caring' tag I wasn't sure it was my thing after all.

In fact, I forgot all about it, until one day an envelope containing my CRB certificate popped through my door - a mere 13 months after I'd applied. Yes, THIRTEEN months, almost to the day. My application had even celebrated its first birthday as I'd remained blissfully unaware . . .

I couldn't resist phoning the CRB people up to find out what had gone wrong.
'Ah, they said, 'it's because you moved addresses recently.'
'So?' I said.
'Between one county and another.'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Well, er . . . it means we had to check with Kent police . . .'
'Mmm.'
'. . . and with Surrey.'
'And that takes 13 months?'
'There was a backlog, Madam.'

How frightfully reassuring.