Last weekend, I left the underground station at Piccadilly Circus, pulled out my phone to find the address of a local hotel only to be called to the side by a police officer. “Excuse me sir, you haven’t done anything wrong, but I am going to search you under the Terrorism Act 2000.”

Not having anything to hide, I agreed. I was searched, my name checked against the police computer and asked to produce any form of identity I had on me. I was given a receipt for my troubles and sent on my way. At the time, this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, but for some reason I haven’t been able to let this rest.
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