Funny place, Hammersmith Broadway. It’s nothing more than an enormous traffic island, really, with a Tube station, a bus station and a slightly feeble shopping centre packed one on top of the other. But it’s newish, and still quite shiny and smart.

With its soothing Tannoy system, endless array of coffee shops, late-night Tesco Metro and abundant provision of vacuous-looking “community officers” roaming between them all, it is the essence, I think, of Brave New London. For better or worse.

I used to love it there. When we first moved back from Paradise, I hadn’t yet noticed the sinister number of CCTV cameras bearing down, nor yet developed an aversion to the entire community-officer breed. Simply knowing I was within reach of a place so pleasantly, unequivocally urban used to make my heart sing.

It certainly doesn’t do that any more, but I still spend a lot of time there, what with the coffee shops. Like a lot of Londoners, I’ve become adept at spotting community officers before they spot me, which means I can usually jump off the bike/stub out the fag/tuck in the shirt before they catch up with me.

It’s a shame the same can’t be said of my husband, excellent citizen that he is. He was at Hammersmith Broadway a couple of weeks ago, gently freewheeling the 4ft or so from pavement edge to bicycle-locking hoop, when he was pounced on by a community officer.

She wanted his name and address – which, eccentrically excellent citizen that he is, he supplied – then she gave him a £30 fine. “How would you describe yourself?” she asked him, 20 minutes of form-filling later. He got a bit scratchy about that. “Would you,” she persisted, “describe yourself as Caucasian?”

The incident rekindled a lot of irritations I used to feel (distracted recently, what with the Botox and so on) about our ghastly, overbearing state. It stirred me to action – and, after months of not getting round to it, I finally signed up to the pressure group NO2ID.

Rather, I would have signed up, but my computer couldn’t open the signing-up form. So I didn’t. But I did print out a leaflet called Stop and Search – Your Rights, which I read. Then the sun came out. Or maybe someone asked me to play tennis. Anyway, life moved on.

Until yesterday morning, when word came through (via a chain of people, some of whom, admittedly, did not speak perfect English) that the Broadway had been overrun by immigration officers. They were stopping commuters and demanding to examine their papers. Was it possible? Was it legal? Was it right?

Because, according to my leaflet (as I fearlessly explained to everyone at breakfast), nobody has to give their name to anyone unless they’re being reported for an offence. Did you know that? Did the hapless commuters of Hammersmith Broadway know it? Clearly, they needed to be told.

First, though, I had to get out of my pyjamas. And take the children to school. And get the baby dressed. And maybe wash my hair. And go for a run. And check my e-mail. And perhaps print out a few extra leaflets. On nice paper. And maybe make some calls, to discuss the issue with a few friends before charging right in . . . And maybe print a few more leaflets. On less nice paper, so they’d look more serious.

By the time I made it there, any immigration workers who might have swept in had long since swept out again. As always, there were a couple of community officers roaming around, but I didn’t like to trouble them.

So, I dropped my lovely leaflets into a bin and went to Pret A Manger instead. Where, interestingly enough, I discovered a raspberry, granola and yoghurt concoction I thought would be delicious to make at home.

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