One Monday morning about 30 years ago, I drove to work, parked my car in the village car park, and started hauling my bags of files out of the boot. In my new role with a firm of solicitors, the weekend had been a chance to familiarise myself with my pressing caseload. I initially paid little attention to a small group of people in heated animation nearby as I unloaded the car. Then I realised what was in fact going on was an attack; someone was pinned against a van. Seconds later, I heard weak squeals for help. I dropped by bags and bellowed, ‘Stop! Stop that now! I am a solicitor and I’m telling you to stop now!’ I strode to the huddle and continued yelling at them to stop.
I told the mother and boyfriend I’m making a citizen’s arrest of them both
Three surprises followed. First, the attack ceased.

Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in