Under a vest

I was arrested the other day.

Okay, back up, tone down, start again.

I was stopped by the police.

Better, truer, come on, elucidate.

One thing about being a white, straight, middle-class male is that you rarely get looked at with suspicion (another is that you are always in the demographic that's oppressing the other, smaller demographic - oh to be in some kind of minority). This is why, on the whole, it was rather a refreshing experience to be stopped by the police. Actually I think the guy was rather taken aback by my enthusiasm on being detained.

Picture the scene, there I am, merrily making my way through the barriers at Waterloo when a rather kindly looking policeman approaches me with an apologetic look on his face.

'Hello, sir' he says, smiling a little sheepishly.

'Hello' I smile back enthusiastically, giving him an encouraging wink.

'Could I have a look in your bag, sir?' and before I can answer 'I have to, you see, sir. I count up to five and every fifth person I have to ask.'

'To look in their bag.'

'Yes, sir.'

'What if they don't have a bag?'

'Then I don't ask them, sir.'

'Lucky them. Do you ask the next one or do you count another five?'

Pause while he looks at me. I chance another wink. 'I was rather hoping I could look in your bag, sir?'

'Yes. Good point. Well ... go ahead.'

'Sorry about this, sir. It's just every ...'

'Fifth person with a bag. Absolutely. I understand. Don't worry about it, I'm rather enjoying being called 'sir' actually.'

'Yes, sir' He scrabbles around in the bag for a moment 'Well, that all seems to be in order.'

'You've missed a bit.'

'Pardon me, sir?'

'You've missed a section. Of the bag. There's a front bit. Plenty of room for a bomb in there. There's a zip at the side.'

'I see. Um ... is there?'

'What?'

'A bomb.'

'No.'

'Good.'

'Would you like to see?'

'I suppose it couldn't hurt, sir.' I open the front bit and he has a quick look. 'There we go. Nothing of interest there, eh?'

'No, sir.'

'Unless you like Maltesers.'

'As you say, sir. Now I need to take down some details ...'

He then proceeds to note down my name, my address, my age, my height, my build ('proportionate'), my self-defined ethnicity ('really very white') and what I'm wearing. I wonder why all this is relevant and if I'm being charged with 'possession of chocolate whilst on a GI diet' but he seems happy enough with my answers. Tearing off my copy of the information he wishes me well and sends me on my way. I can't resist one final comment.

'You must meet some interesting people with this job.'

'Sometimes, sir. Sometimes.'

And then I'm gone, down the escalators, into the depths of the earth.