They obviously knew something I didn’t.So, everything went quiet for a bit. I consigned the whole thing to that dustbin in the brain marked London Life And then, in November, a Man from London Transport rang. Would I give them a statement, he asked, and testify in court? OK, I said, and took the arvo off work to write down dreary details in block capitals. The police, by the way, had dropped charges, but LT were carrying on with a civil action, just like those ominous posters say they will.The trial was set for December I booked the day off. The day before the court date, the Man from LT rang to say that proceedings had been postponed: magistrates’ Christmas shopping or something. He would write to me.Now, a London Transport letter is one of those computer-generated things.

It’s always been a source of mystery to me why computer-generated letters are even less courteous than the old-fashioned typed sort. It’s not as though anyone has to do any more work to include the words “please” and “thank you”. LT’s letter is a classic of spareness: a date, a time, a yours sincerely.April was the next date, at Horseferry Road magistrates court Horseferry Road is not exactly Disneyland. The waiting room consists of rows of fixed plastic chairs where everyone – accused, victims, witnesses, lawyers – mix in together.

For a bit I sat next to the man I was testifying against, until I recognised him and moved off. No one would let me go to the loo or find a cup of coffee as they said I was next up.At four o’clock, two hours after lunch, the magistrates downed wigs for the day. “They’ve already extended things to fit in the doctors,” said the Man from LT. “Doctors are busy people.” I didn’t realise until then that I myself qualify as a lady who lunches.

I went to the court to tell them what dates were inconvenient (“every day for the rest of my life”), and a man in a suit was saying, “I don’t understand why I’ve been hearing all this evidence about bruising on the conductress. I mean, she’s black, isn’t she?” Oh, good old British justice.In July, another Man from LT rang me “You’re late,” he said, “You were due at 10 o’clock” “Late where?” “Horseferry Road. You’re due in court right now.” “Don’t I get any notice?” “Oh, didn’t anyone write to you?”I’ll say one thing for Horseferry Road: they can get their act together when someone looks like they’re about to have an aneurysm I was in and out within, oh, a couple of hours. The testimony bit wasn’t too bad: a barrister tried to pick my grammar apart, a last-resort trick, and not the most brilliant tactic to try with a hack. The man who had done the thumping studied me as if he was trying to memorise my features.