I was sitting on the 295 today right outside the flat that I spent the summer in, watching a group of policeman across the road talking to some well-dressed men. I had noticed three policemen at the bus stop on my side of the road, and the two meatwagons and a patrol car outside my old block of flats, so I was intrigued as to what was going on. One of the men passed a sheet of paper to an officer, and as he turned away, I saw a name badge with a familiar red circle with a horizontal bar. Suddenly, it all became clear…

Well, not quite a script from a detective thriller, because a guy appeared on the top deck of the bus, and asked to see all of our tickets and passes. He had a policeman standing half-way up the steps as moral support, but apart from the poor kid beside me who had a bit of a panic when he couldn’t remember which of his (suddenly infinite) number of pockets his ticket was in, it all went smoothly. More inspections would be fine with me – the drivers can only afford to give passes a cursory glance, since there’s often over a hundred people trying to squeeze on in as short a time as possible, it’s hard to check that the photocard is valid, the travelcard is valid, the numbers on the two match…

The 295 is a bit of a strange one for me to be on, but I thought I had better take a quick pass by Hammersmith bus station on the way home. That’s cause on Friday, after some rather unexpected happenings in the Union, I saw a guy getting the absolute shit kicked out of him by a group of about six others, right on front of me. And I mean right on front – I was sitting on one of the ledges around the balcony (you’ll know what I mean if you know the bus station), and the glass beside me and the floor around me got sprayed in some kind of Mafia film style when the guy got kicked in the face as he lay on the floor in front of me. For once, I’m completely proud of what I did to help – absolutely nothing. You see, normally, and especially when I’m that many sheets to the wind, I’ll jump in and try and break it up, and usually get punched in the face for my efforts. Like yonder time in Switzerland in fairly similar circumstances, except I was off-duty staff in the club that time. So on Friday I managed to control myself, sat stock still, and jumped on the first N72 that arrived, just as large numbers of police arrived. And that way I avoided spoiling what would had been up to that point a rather pleasant evening.

And so today I went past again, out of my way, to see if they had one of those bright yellow appeals for witnesses boards up. I don’t see that much in the way of violent crime up close and personal, so I felt it was worth the effort, and unfortunately that seems to be the only way of finding out (passively) if the police are looking for help. Their website seems reserved for the highest profile murder appeals and suchlike, and walking into a police station is a bit too much effort. The big yellow boards are quite useful I imagine, but they only work if you happen to see a crime somewhere that you pass regularly. So why didn’t I hang around and talk to the police there and then, like a truly good citizen? Because I was very drunk, very tired, and very happy, and I was in homing pidgeon mode, so nothing would be able to stop me from heading straight to bed. Which is where, coincedently, I’m heading now.