One night, late in the last century, I was with some friends walking home in the middle of the night. We were living in Cricklewood, on Shoot-Up Hill – which remains my favourite home address. Anyway, a police car, blue lights a-flashing, came to a halt in front of us. A couple of police officers leapt out and asked us to jump up and down. You what?
They asked us again, but in a tone suggesting it was less of a question than a command. Up and down we jumped until told to stop doing so. The cops thanked us for our trouble and, jumping back into their vehicle, explained they were on the hunt for some lads who’d just robbed an amusement arcade. In the morning we asked each other if this had really happened. And 35 years on, I’ve just asked one of the blokes I was with if it really happened. And it did. I don’t think I’ve rummaged for coins in my pocket since without thinking about this incident.
