The Tales We Keep Telling, 9: The Police in My Living Room

Yes, it's another tale of house-sharing. I actually have two stories that fit under this heading. One I don't tell for comic effect, since it was about something illegal (not done by me, I hasten to add), and is responsible for me knowing from first-hand experience that when the police raid your house, they really do bang on the door at 7am.

This dates from when I lived in the West End in a giant house with badly-designed walls. One of my housemates was a trainee policewoman, and responsible for me being a strong contender to win any competition about the biggest surprise you've ever got when you woke up. One Saturday morning, as I staggered down the stairs at my usual pre-coffee dopey amble, I suddenly realised my kitchen and living room were filled with about 15 policemen and women. (This is something of a surprise when you're wearing your elderly pyjamas and dressing gown.)

It turned out they'd had a social the night before for people on the police training course, and all of them had stayed over night at my house. In the living room.

I can only assume they must have slept stacked on top of each other.