The following little missive appeared on our letters page last week – ‘Did you know that since 1990, 1,433 people have died following contact with the police? Did you also know that not one single copper has been convicted of manslaughter in this time? To put this in perspective, you are eight times more likely to die in police custody than at the hands of terrorists. Scary isn’t it?’ Er, come to think about it, no, but thanks for keeping count.

More disturbing, I think, is the fact that no matter what the police do, they’re always wrong.

Indeed, it seems astonishing to me that anyone would ever consider even joining the police when they know that all they’ll earn by way of our gratitude is scorn and contempt.

I have friends whose only acquaintance with crime is Lewis , but persist in calling police ‘pigs’ (these incidentally are the same people whose homes boast half-mile driveways so I can’t help but think they’re backing the wrong team).

It just never fails to amaze me how police polarize public opinion – they’re either hated by large sections of the community or really hated by everyone else.

Remember when they were filmed a few winters back, using their riot shields to toboggan down Boars Hill?

The majority of us applauded their sense of seasonal fun, but my god, those who didn’t couldn’t have been more fired up with venom and bitterness had they tried.

Reading their online bile, I remember thinking: on a dark street, who would I be more afraid of – these tobogganing enforcers of the law or the anonymous authors of these hate mails?

Fortunately, I’m still naive enough to think it’s good to see a police officer. And, as a matter of principle, I always try to greet them when walking by.

Quite why I’m not sure, but it’s something to do with Enid Blyton and her Famous Five novels.

When I was still young enough to insist on being tucked into bed, I was hooked on Anne, George, Julian, Dick and Timmy.

Blyton wrote 21 adventures in all and in every one, clean cut know-it-all Julian shopped the thieves to ‘burly’ policemen who would always say: “There’s bound to be a reward for this.”

However, growing older and more suspicious that these jewel thieves and spies never tried actually hurting the children – in as much as getting them to drop their aitchs (“Ere Anne, ‘ow in ‘ell’s name do you put up with these toffs?”) – I moved on to The Hardy Boys, Frank and Joe and their chief-of-police father, Fenton, who lived in Bayport, America.

Once again, the teenage boys solved extraordinary mysteries but when the police became involved, I always thought the detectives were really cool.

So, for what it’s worth, every time someone takes a cheap shot at our boys and girls in blue, it bugs me.

Blame my local library...