don't remind me

By the way, this really is Hackney. The police have put a paper through the letterbox about last week's shooting in my road.

At about 4pm last Sunday I heard a sharp crack and an instantaneous load of really nasty shouting. It sounded serious so I went to look - fumbled with the keys to the balcony door, finally got it open just in time to see a man screaming his head off, oddly rummaging through the open boot of a parked car, slam the boot, jump into his car and drive wildly off. Exchanged a few words with my neighbour whose head was poking out her window parallel to mine, and who had caught 3 digits of the licence plate; then, as nothing seemed to be developing, went back in. There were a few blokes gathering on the pavement to discuss it.

Half an hour later when I went out to get my nails done the place was swarming with cops. Half the street was out, skinny, black-hatted men and pale, headscarfed girls all with pale babies tucked under their arms like dolls. Strangely, all the babies were exactly the same size. People were excitedly talking about what they'd seen, which was invariably a lot more than I had. One guy in a long black coat was trying to decribe to the interviewing officer the gun. The officer says: "I can appreciate you may not be very up on firearms, but would you say it was like this" - pulling his own gun out of its holster, making the girls gasp - "or more like, you know, a cowboy gun?" One young mother laughs, "a cowboy gun!? Noooo, it wasn't long, you know, it wasn't one of those long ones..." Cop sighs. "Did it have a, a bit on it that revolved?"

An hour later I'm just leaving the nail bar, with my rosy fingernails and deliciously soft feet, and the mobile rings. It's my 12-year-old and two of her little friends - with their summery frocks and leggings, spotty hair bands, big shoulder bags & shoulder-length earrings - saying, "Hi Mummy, we can't get into our road, there's loads of police & they have the whole thing blocked off." I hurry back - thankful I'm out, because if I'd been in the flat I'd have been stuck in there and unable to get to the girls - and sure enough there is a huge crowd of every kind of person you can imagine all waiting to be allowed in, and a very harassed-looking police officer who has a clipboard and instructions not to give out any information.

The street was blocked off because they were scouring it looking for bullets. It turned out someone was shot. Maybe twice. The parked car was still there, with orange jump leads trailing out of it, cordoned off. They later towed it away.

Another 12-year-old arrives, in a swirly white dress with lace trim, getting off the bus just as the policeman starts to write our names on his clipboard and then escorts us to another set of cops, who let us cross the road into our home. "Oooh, it's so fun!" she enthuses. "Thanks for letting me come!"

At some point in our 30-minute wait, hungry for information, I commented to the nearest cop, "so this might be on the local news?" at which he snorted, "Shouldn't bloody think so! This is Hackney. Happens every day."

Two hours later the police, the cameramen and surveyors, the cordons, were all gone. It just looked like a peaceful summer evening.

And until the piece of paper came through the door, I had indeed forgotten all about it.