THE southwest London suburb where I have lived for 17 years is what estate agents like to call an “exclusive oasis”. Over the years it’s been relatively crime-free and neighbourly.

But lately “Barnes Village”, like so many other communities, has proved it is not immune from the violence that besets modern Britain. A little more than a week ago I discovered just how dangerous it can be - and just how little the police are willing to do about it.

Tuesday

It was 11.30pm and we were on our way home, following a Ford Galaxy, when it stopped in the middle of our road, as is the habit in suburban London where parking is hard to find. There was actually a parking space opposite, but the occupants, a man and woman, sat chatting. Had it not been so late and the houses around in darkness, one would have given them a pip on the horn to move on.

We tried to squeeze past, but could not make it. So we sat in rising irritation as they ignored us. After a while he kissed her, got a bag out of the back and, instead of a gesture of apology or the usual raised hand of thanks, he looked at us with contempt.

We eventually found a place to park near our house. On a whim, I wandered back up the road. Perhaps I should have thought better of it, but I wanted to make a note of where this rude man, whom I had never seen before, lived.

To my surprise he was standing outside his open front door. “Next time, show some courtesy to your neighbours and have the decency to pull over,” I said. It was, I admit, not gentle. It was not a request. It was the righteous demand of middle-aged, middle England wearing a suit and tie and wanting to get home after a long day. But it didn’t deserve what followed.

He moved forward two steps, his right hand taking off his glasses and returning, unseen by me, as a sledgehammer blow on my right cheek. I was so stunned I didn’t move. The follow-through, a second later, took my legs away.

I was still conscious, thank God, as he started kicking me as hard as he could. I knew I had to get up or I could be crippled, but as I rose he punched me down again. More kicks. I rose again and was punched down again. On the third attempt I got to my feet.

He had stopped and was now in the road where his girlfriend’s car had returned. I made a note of the house number and hurried away as best I could. The quiet tree-lined road of slumbering parents and children was deserted.

A police Tactical Response Unit came in about 10 minutes, asked a few questions, told me to go to hospital, but first to identify the house. It was in darkness.

“We’ll be back later, and if we are longer it’s because we have made an arrest,” the police constable told me. My assailant had had the good sense either to clear off or had turned out all the lights.

I apologised for my stupidity and recklessness in confronting a man late at night, although even today I would struggle to believe that the owner of a £750,000 home in a quiet suburban neighbourhood would unleash such a violent attack.

“Nobody deserves what happened to you,” the constable said reassuringly. “If you see him, call the police, but don’t confront him.”

Wednesday

This evening the girlfriend’s Ford was in the road and the house was ablaze with lights. My assailant certainly wasn’t hiding now. I called the police, gave them the car’s registration number, told them someone was home and was told to wait.

At 10.30pm the constable called - he was back on duty, but their evening calls were already mounting up. “I am not the investigating officer, but if I get time I’ll give him a knock,” he said.

I gave him the names of the people listed at the address to see if they coincided with the registered owner of the vehicle. “Where did you obtain this information?” I pointed out that it was publicly available. What was the the police response? “I am warning you that you may be committing an offence under the Data Protection Act,” he said.

Thursday

In the morning I saw the girlfriend in the street and she drove past me. I assumed the police would soon be making inquiries - they had an address, a name, and my account of the attack. But I heard nothing.

Friday

Having still heard nothing, I rang the police and spoke to a woman on the Crime Management Unit switchboard. She told me my case had not yet been transferred onto the correct computer system by the constable - and he was now off-duty for five days. She said she was transferring the incident to the Beat Crime Unit in Teddington, Middlesex; a sergeant, who was in charge there, would allocate it in a day or so.

Sunday

A friend called to tell me that his nephew, at university in sleepy Eastbourne, had been beaten up together with his housemates by a gang wielding knives who lived nearby.

“They called the police, but they haven’t done anything,” he said. Still no word about my own incident.

Monday

I called the police again to inquire about progress - but now the sergeant was off-duty. Instead a detective constable said he would check the entry on the computer.

I was beginning to wonder whether they would ever do anything. “You are in CID,” I said. “We have a crime where we know where the suspect lives, and he appears to be living there openly - this must be the easiest crime in the world to clear up. And yet nothing seems to have been done.”

You could almost hear the paperwork being pushed around. The detective replied: “The officers have got quite heavy workloads and there are other crimes that are equally easy to clear up, but they just mount up.”

That evening the TV news highlighted a report critical of the Metropolitan police for failing to act when a young father was attacked by a gang he had confronted; the gang eventually returned to kill him.

Saturday

Still no word from the police, no sign that my attacker will face any investigation.

All my journalistic life I have worked with the police; as a result I have friends in the force and even belong to a Metropolitan Police recreational club. I know it can be a tough and dangerous job. But I also know many have retired in their mid or late forties on full pensions.

Many others have left because “the job has become about filling in forms”. It’s so bad that last week Sir Ian Blair, the Met’s commissioner, called for a “bonfire” of police paperwork and a return to the era portrayed in the TV series Life on Mars when justice was “quick and straightforward”.

These days it’s so slow I have still heard nothing from the police; my attacker is seemingly immune to prosecution; and surprisingly I have had no fewer than three offers from professional, middle-class friends to use someone they know who “sorts out problems like this”.

I do - did - believe in the police because the consequences of indulging in “citizen justice” are too terrifying to contemplate. But increasingly I am told by conservative, law-abiding people: “You can’t rely on the police any more - they’re useless.”

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