The Siege of Oxford Street

I was woken at 6am yesterday by beer barrels being dropped into the cellar of a nearby pub. But the sound that woke me a little earlier this morning was bailiffs smashing in our door with a sledge-hammer.

I saw them on the stairs to the third floor and rushed to wake up Dan. They'd already woken Ray on the second. Alongside a woman were four tough old men from the West Country wearing their firm's matching fleeces. I looked them up later and saw they "offer a service removing unauthorised occupiers/travellers from land owned by their clients, without the expense and delay of having to go through the court system."

So, in their own words, it was an illegal eviction. We'd been in the property just under a week, too soon for it to be anything else. They'd ripped down the Section 6 notices we'd put on both doors, on which we'd written the incident number we were given a week ago when we reported our presence to the police.

The bailiffs came into my room and told me to pack my stuff and leave. While this happened, Dan called 999 and texted me "Don't pack we're not leaving". But with bailiffs crowding round me I stuffed my rucksack and courier bag, and then they marched me downstairs.

I told them I wouldn't leave until the police arrived. A squad car was with us in minutes, and I fulfilled a lifelong ambition of shouting for help from a window. The police looked up but didn't come inside at this or any other point. The bailiffs got us downstairs where we saw they'd smashed off the top of the chipboard door. Ray repeated over and over "I can't believe they did that!" The bolt was gone but our Yale lock was still intact.

Amongst those outside were three men from DTZ, the commercial property firm which had ordered the eviction. Workers across the street lent out of their windows to see what was going on. Ray and I held our ground in the corridor, and shouted for the police to make the bailiffs stand back when it looked like they were trying to crowd us out. I needed the toilet, a drink, a cigarette, and breakfast, but was otherwise okay.

The policemen who answered our 999 call had been working since 7pm and were about to finish their twelve-hour shift. To their great credit, they stayed an hour after their shift finished while they sought advice on the law.

Two more squad cars arrived, and from one stepped a sergeant. The chief bailiff said that squatters could be evicted from commercial premises without a court order (untrue), and showed him his bailiff's certificate (expired) and a warrant issued by DTZ (of no legal standing). Dan responded in a confident, credible, informed, and outraged manner.

The mood lightened as time passed. "It doesn't normally take this long" said one bailiff. Hearing the tambourines and chants of a Hare Krishna procession, I asked "Can't we get them to sort this out?" Ray talked to the woman about her taste in music while Dan and I swapped stories with the chief bailiff. He erroneously claimed their break-in was in "a gray area", and "pushing the boundaries". But when we asked after his colleague who'd left the scene, he told us he'd been sent to the car in case the rest of them were arrested. "If that happens, we'll just have to sue for wrongful arrest" he said.

Finally a senior suit arrived from the Prudential, the property's owners. He looked inside then asked Ray and I if we'd leave. I knew this bit: the answer was no. If they wanted to evict us, there was a legal process they had to follow. At that, and knowing the police weren't going to allow an illegal eviction, he told the bailiffs to leave.

We asked if we could propose a deal to stay in the building until it was needed. He'd heard of our art squats in Mayfair and Waterloo. He said the Prudential did sometimes let groups use vacant properties; but not this one, and not since we'd moved in without asking. Still, he gave us his card and we shook hands with him and the chief bailiff.

Moments later a builder turned up, booked by DTZ to repair the door. Now they knew we weren't leaving, they told him not to bother.

We shut the half-smashed door and almost embraced in exhausted relief.