“It’s the police, let us in.”

I didn’t expect that when I answered the buzzer. I’ve rarely attracted the attention of the police. They had never been to my door before. At first, I imagined from the plain clothes of the two officers that they must be CID. They were both men with London accents, and both wearing trenchcoats. One was middle aged, and clearly used to getting his way. The other was younger, black with crew cut hair, and surprisingly nervous.

Rather than coming to their point, they asked me several roundabout questions about plans for protests against the G8, which was to be held at the Gleneagles Hotel in Scotland later that year. Slowly, it dawned on me that they were not from CID, that these police officers were interested in my politics. As an activist who was brought up in the Gleneagles area, I had tried to arrange a meeting between protesters and locals.

I asked “Is this about the email I sent to Blackford community council, asking for a public meeting?” The older police officer turned to his colleague and said, theatrically, “Oh, is it that Alistair Davidson?”, as though he had no idea whose door he had come to. They asked me to inform on my friends and fellow protesters. I refused. They left.

I now know that at least one of the protesters I had met, Mark Stone, was a police officer himself.

I’m relating this story now because that was the day that I learned that as a result of peaceful political activity, I was on a government list. Somewhere in the security service’s database there is a file with my name. Five years ago, it would be very small and very boring, the story of a young man who had been to a few protests, sat on a few committees, and occasionally wrote articles.

I’m sickened by what my file might contain today. The sickness came upon me last night, as I spoke to a friend on Facebook. I realised that our conversation, and every similar conversation, was being recorded. How notorious would I have to be for it to be kept forever, just in case? Hard drives are very cheap. I expect not that notorious at all.

Then I started to consider all the emails in my inbox. Love letters. Breakup letters. Chats with my sister about our childhoods and futures. Medical information about my family. I realised that if men in trenchcoats ever come to my door again, they will first rummage through all of that, looking for a lever, something to tempt or threaten me. Maybe, I realised, that has already happened.

I’ve felt ill ever since.