You can tell a woman from her haircut

For over two years now, it has been the custom of every gateline assistant and every train guard I have met in the course of my working day, to allow me through the barriers at my station, and travel free on the train, so that I can go to work.

Arriving back at the station after a day's work, the barrier assistant, as ever, greeted me and allowed me though the gate. I was shocked when a few seconds later, I was apprehended by two revenue protection officers, one of whom trained her body camera and voice recorder on me.

"Excuse me. Did you have a ticket for your journey today?" "No." "Why not?"

I explained that it has always been the custom for the barrier staff to allow me travel on the railway so that I can go to my job on the railway. This didn't impress them, and they proceeded with the police-style warning about anything I may say may be used in evidence, and how it may harm my defence if I remain silent. All this taking place in public, on the concourse of a busy station at 4pm, curious passengers and staff gawping at me.

She asked me several more questions, about how many times this has happened, the purpose of my journey, its origin and destination, and so on. The most startling part of the grilling was when she said "it's looby, isn't it? I remember you from when you worked with us." That was seven years ago.

Eventually I was released with a little card, having given my assurances that I will deal with any forthcoming correspondence promptly. It rattled me, but I felt worse for the barrier staff, who I might have inadvertently got into trouble. I was compelled to visit the pub outside the station in order to recover my composure.

At Mel's that night, I slept in fits and starts, before getting up at 3am to ring in sick.

Three days later I went to face the music. As usual, a "good morning" from the barrier staff, and the gates were opened for me. "Actually, I've had a bit of a ticking off from Maeve," I said. "What about?" "About just going through the barriers. I've got to get tickets now." "Oh," he said.

That was twelve days ago. Since then, the old practices have resumed, except that I have started buying a £1.50 ticket to and from the next station just in case I am challenged again. It was a thoroughly unpleasant experience, and I only wish they'd hurry up and tell me how many lashes I am to receive. It's sad that the railway hosts these young outliers like Maeve, who, ignoring established, if uncodified, custom of seeing us all as fellow colleagues in a common endeavour, relish acting as zealots, interpreting the corporate creed in its most conservative interpretation. These women who have their hair cut in a ski-slope from their ears down to just below the napes of their necks are always trouble.

And then a big silver lining appeared. For reasons I dont quite understand, I've been awarded housing benefit, which will cover all but £4.63 of my rent. About a month ago I speculatively applied for HB and a reduction in my Council Tax, assembling a sheaf of documents -- bank statements, Universal Credit award letters, and my tenancy agreement (they wanted all seventeen pages of it) -- for inspection by the council.

I was astonished when, last week, I received a "Notification of Housing Benefit Award". I scrutinised it again and again over the following days, looking for a way I might have misinterpreted the decision; but even raked with the finest-toothed comb, it contained only the liberating news that I am to pay nothing more than the price of a pint a month to live in this flat.