On the number 12 bendy bus heading up to town a gang of ticket inspectors backed by police get on at Trafalgar Square. One of them scans my Oyster card, which seems okay – I assume he can tell whether or not I swiped it on this bus, which on this occasion I did. (The other day, coming home when the bus was packed and I had to stand among people eating fast food and shouting into mobiles, I decided not to fight my way past them just to swipe 80p off my card.) Someone on the back seat doesn’t have a ticket. He says he’s homeless. You’d better get off the bus then, says the inspector. He says he’s homeless, he tells the policeman waiting outside. They have about three people out there. One is struggling. They put hand cuffs on him.