My great grandfather was a village bobby. I never met him, but I did, as a child, spend many hours in a back-yard Anderson shelter-cum-shed, bedecked resplendently in his policeman’s helmet. It was during this role play that I often attempted to wallop my elder brother over the head with a sturdy black wooden truncheon for some grievous childhood infraction of the rules.

I have been regaled with tales as to how, on the leaf strewn streets of Crowhurst village in Sussex, GG would command authority, respect and fear in equal measure. Apple scrumping? A crime that demanded the kangaroo court punishment of a clip around the ear. Rudeness to adults? The same, and so on and so forth.

Working with the general public, or children nowadays is, rightly, a different kettle of fish. Short, sharp shocks of the physical kind are no longer permissible, due to those who overstepped the mark in bygone days and, in place of punishment, garnered self-gratification for their masochistic tendencies.

I have, despite childhood misdemeanours which on one occasion resulted in my being pinned to a wall by an overzealous member of the constabulary, always had respect for the boys in blue. It is not a job I would wish for: the constant edginess of situations encountered, the threats of violence, the monotonous form filling and paperwork, and the constant justification as to why you did x, y and z as the instigator laughs and mocks as you are shown to be the meat in the middle of a due process sandwich.

I used to see the bobby on the beat. He would usually be found frequenting the local newsagent with a Fondant Fancy and a cuppa as he waited for something to happen. He was a face, close by should he be called upon in the hour of need, much like a kitchen fire extinguisher. Rarely used, but a lifesaver when out of its inert state.

Everyone knew him by name. They would discuss points of law, the weather, politics and Dalglish’s chances of claiming the footballer of the year title. He was a presence, feared and respected in equal measure.

Fast forward to today and I have to rack my brains as to when I have ever seen a bobby on the beat in my village of London Colney. We do occasionally clap eyes on the odd car flashing blues and twos down the high street, and a pair of PCSOs, but that is all. It would be a welcome comeback to see him (or her) wandering down the pavement, rosy cheeked, as they survey the lay of the land while bidding a good day to Missus Miggins at number 38.

It is a situation replicated across the country. Satellite police stations replace the real deal. 20,000 fewer police are employed since 2010, although, according to the Dianne Abbott fiscal institute, that figure is nearer to twenty thirteen squazillion. Those that are in the job seem to be in task forces fighting against the big guns, be they terrorists or cyber fraud gangs. Gone are the days when you could have your mower nicked and call upon the local PC who would actively pay due care and attention whilst working to re-unite Flymo with owner.

Yes, we have austerity, budget cuts and supposed improved processes, with crime now being identified and fought from behind a computer screen. Quite simply though, nothing beats the human touch and the day to day victim, the everyman, is feeling marginalised. Had your car scratched, a bit of graffiti on your front door or mobile phone stolen? You may as well save yourself further aggravation and just claim on the insurance. The feeling is that the police won’t do anything as they are truly now the thin blue line.

I long for the day when I hear the plod of size 12s thumping down the street with physical presence. To hear the cliched welcome of ‘ello, ello, ello’ would be a boon. The truth is, it won’t happen and no level of political spin is going to convince me otherwise.

- Brett Ellis is a teacher who lives in London Colney