The police turned up just after two, a pair of young men in frying-pan hats who stood either side of the doorway as we filed past in groups. "Where's your passport?" they asked, picking me out as a foreigner. I handed over the photocopy I always carry around and they mimed searching pages and looking for stamps. The music stopped, the kitchen emptied, "It's Yanukovych's police state," came a drunken shout from behind. "That's all I have with me," I said with a shrug. He looked over my shoulder to the Christmas lights still flashing on the wall. "You go," he said. "Who lives in this flat?"
My friend was done yesterday at Holborn for cycling through a red light. Fined £30. 'Sorry sir, we are duty bound to issue a fine as you have been stopped by a motorcycle police officer.'
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