Returning from Austria in 1996 after having spent almost a year living and working in that lovely, stuck-in-a-time-warp land, I was thrilled and amazed by London. Crossing Waterloo Bridge at sunset brought tears to my eyes. Ah, my home town.

That winter, I rediscovered "ambling" - the city dweller's version of rambling. This involves walking slowly enough for your gaze properly to take in a blue plaque or an incongruous horse sculpture along the way. In fact, I spent so much time looking upwards, slack-jawed as a Texan tourist, that one afternoon the inevitable happened - a pigeon emptied its bladder on my forehead. I didn't have a tissue on me, so, with as much decorum as I could manage, I smeared the gooey wetness through my fringe like a exotic brand of gel and strode, head high, through the group of Korean girls giggling at me behind their hands.

Even being a mobile toilet for winged parasites couldn't stop me wandering around the city enjoying the sights at all hours of the day and night.

Now, I've (almost) had enough. Something fundamental has changed about London. There's an atmosphere of menace that wasn't here before - well, not so blatantly, anyhow.

I've been aware of guns and Yardies in London since I was a teenager. The first time I came into contact with a gun was at a blues party in Tottenham in 1987. For a white girl to go to this particular party was perhaps, in hindsight, not such a brilliant idea anyway. However, I knew "Andy", a popular guy on the scene, and a flash of his gold tooth was usually enough to keep the edgy Broadwater girls off my case.

We'd been there about ten minutes when a much younger kid in a floppy, suede version of a top hat started pushing roughly through the heaving crowd. He had two other "kids" with him who trod on feet in their rush to get to the bar. As the hat wearer pushed me aside, I tutted and said something like: "You wouldn't think he'd want to be noticed in that hat . . . "

For one second, our eyes met, and I was stunned by the fury in his face. As his back retreated through the crowds, Andy grabbed my arm and hissed: "Right, c'mon, we're going home now. You just messed up, gal. That was the wrong guy to joke about."

He was sweating and almost hyperventilating. The crowd, I remember, actually parted as we went past. We had become lepers, infectious, deadly. I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. The kid I'd laughed at was what - 17 or 18 at a push? I protested and pulled my arm from Andy's grip.

As I turned away from him, I saw the boy and his mates heading towards me. The rest happened in slow motion. He saw me and raised his left arm to point me out. His jacket fell open. There was a holster around his body, and in it was a large revolver.

Andy and I ran to Seven Sisters Tube station. Suddenly, he turned to me and asked: "What the hell were you doing? Times 'ave changed, y'know. You can't go around talking out of line like that. That crowd all have guns." Andy was so shocked that he went home and lay low for weeks afterwards, terrified that this stupid kid would hunt him down and kill him because I hadn't shown him "nuff respect".

After that, I took the sensible decision to avoid blues parties on council estates that have hosted riots. Fine, but I can't avoid the Underground or the local shop. At Wood Green last month, three children aged 12 tried to mug me as I sat waiting for a train. When I told them to get stuffed, they tried to convince me they had guns. They didn't. That time, I kept my bag and my dignity.

Yesterday at my corner shop, I stopped the owner selling beer to a boy no older than 11.

The boy mumbled that his mum was "ill" and the beer was for her.

"If she's ill, get her some Lucozade," I snapped.

The boy was waiting across the road for me as I pushed my daughter's pram home. He pointed his fingers towards her head and mimed shooting a gun.

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