I return from the gym to be greeted by a Policeman standing in the car park. He looks like he has some form of disability which is causing his neck to be all crooked and his head is twisted like he is trying to eat a chocolate treat off his left shoulder blade. My mind races through the things I have recently done which may warrant a visit from the police:

• I put a bit of carpet in someone else's skip (Immoral not illegal)
• I honked Perky, My Canadian Girlfriend's Left Boob, while she was talking to the women, utside the Labour Party Conference, protesting about not treating women like objects (Just plain funny)
• I drove at 75 mph on the Motorway (Illegal but not likely to require a home visit)
• I have never let Nectarines "Ripen in Fruit Bowl" as instructed by the label (I'm sure it's against my Human Rights to have to obey instructions given by fruit)
• I conducted an act of sexual harassment by looking up the trouser leg of a big purple inflatable gorilla to see if it was anatomically correct. (It was an androgynous blow up monkey, so no crime there then)
• My Canadian Girlfriend never buys a ticket on the Tram and she could've been arrested (Not sure I could afford the bail plus some time in the slammer would teach her good)
• I have comitted genocide against Spiders (This would be nice as I've always wanted to see the Hague)

I conclude that if he is here to see me then he must have come to instruct me to cross the solid white line in the middle of the road in the course of his duty. "Is there a Flat 72 here?" he says.

"No" I reply, remembering my "hostile witness" training about not giving too much away during cross examination. I notice that his van is parked in Flat 15's reserved spot, I am assuming he does not live there. I castigate him in my head for it. After all, the Police are not above the law.

"Bloody people thinking they're having a laugh ringing 999 and sending us to the wrong address. If it's not them it's neighbourly disputes - 'Arrest him Officer!' - when all he's done is knock a dog out by throwing a can of baked beans at it. Do they not realise the paperwork I'd have to do..." he continues, sounding like an entry in Coppersblog, "I could be sitting in a lay-by drinking tea from a polystyrene cup."

Still, I think, it must beat standing in the G-Mex car park making sure those anti-war tree hugging pacifists don't drive an electric powered car, packed with a naturally ocurring fertilizer bomb into the Labour Conference. He resumes his disfigured stance and talks to a little black pixie on his shoulder.

"Hang on - I mean is there a number 64 here?" he says. I can see how easy that would be to mix up. I show him where the flat is and he rushes off, climbing the stairs three at a time. I sit by my window with my mobile phone's video camera on hoping I can get a decent video for YouTube.