"Oy you a terrorist mate?"

Bedecked in a denim jacket, a Che Guevara T Shirt, with a rucksack and my brother's laundry, I was stopped and bag-searched at 0945 this morning under the 2000 Anti Terrorism Act by three uniformed police and a search dog at Kings Cross, just yards from the barrier.

In spite of the policeman being very nice (and even introducing me to the dog, which i wanted to stroke but felt it inappropriate), my stomach rumbled but that could have been hunger. He asked me a few basic question. if i was on my way to work, what work that was and how long I had been there. "For friggin ever" was not appropriate so I said "four years". He said he would give me a receipt, which would show the reason for any lateness. I was tempted to say "oh we must do this again". I was grateful for that, he does not know what my boss Pippa is like. She has heard all manner of excuse from me! He asked me for some id, I had my passport, which must have looked suspicious but I am in the process of renewing, and a credit card. He joked he would not charge me for the search. I mustered a laugh as the rush hour wandered by. He looked through my bag, saw a Nivea for Men oil control moisturizer and probably decided I was no threat. He also asked me to select my ethnic origin. British White was way down the list, which underlines how cosmopolitan London is, I almost ticked West Indian Rastafarian by mistake.

He told me politely if I had any grievances, I could call the following number and they both wished me a pleasant day. I miss the dog already. I am off now to calm that rumbling stomach, think of that poor shot Brazilian and ditch my jacket. Denim is out. And so am I.