It's Monday morning and I'm walking to work, aware of the riots that took place at the weekend. Getting close to my local high street, Brixton, I am told the whole area has been closed; last night the violence moved south of the river and devastation ensued.
Being a concerned citizen, I ask a few questions about the places affected. The Marks and Spencer's where yesterday I purchased my red pepper hummus, lightly salted kettle chips and pork steaks in a lemon and garlic marinade: shattered. The branch of Vodafone, which last week tried to rip me off on an iPhone 4 contract: looted. The Footlocker I had never been in, but sometimes thought about going into when considering taking up running: a write-off. Sweet Jesus this was serious. What had these villains done to my urban paradise?
Understanding the gravity of the situation I go into security-walk mode. I strap on my slightly oversized headphones and begin to march, at approximately the speed of a milk float on a motorway, to another station (by the way, Clapham North is an absolute honeypot).
For most of the day there is little indication that the riots will spill into a third night. But late in the afternoon, rumblings begin about an uprising in Hackney. I secure this safely in my anti-thuggery database but continue with my day.
It is not until I arrive home from work and turn on a TV that I fully comprehend what is happening: London has gone to war with itself.
At pace, I transform my living room into an information mainframe. BBC News on one screen, Sky News on another, and real-time Twitter search results for Brixton and Clapham. All doors double-locked, 20 cigarettes in my pocket and a microwaveable Chinese ready-meal in the kitchen: I am going to make it through the night.
The door shakes from an almighty bang and my heart practically falls out of my arse. Thankfully, this isn't the mob coming to steal my Mad Men boxset and marinaded pork steaks, it's just my housemate.
He has taken David Cameron's earlier announcement regarding Operation Cobra as an instruction for all citizens to purchase as much Cobra beer as they can carry. He also has a bottle of absinthe, but assures me this will only be utilized if the siege of Lambeth becomes a war of attrition.
Outside it sounds as if the Casualty theme tune is being played on repeat, while inside my information mainframe has become a generator of panic. Twitter and 24-hour news are good for keeping up to date on situations as they develop but when it comes to fear mongering, there are no other forms of media that come close.
Reports show that Croydon is on fire, Peckham has gone petrol bomb happy and Hackney looks like the start of 28 Days Later. Word has it that Clapham will be the next to be hit. Shit just got real.
A Google map of places hit by the riots indicates that our area will be struck again. The Nazis are coming and we are the Von Trapps. My housemate starts singing My Favourite Things to easy the tension. This works for a while but we soon find out Clapham Junction - just a matter of minutes away - has been taken.
Amidst the panicking, running around and trying to build a fort in the living room, I receive a text saying that London Zoo has been attacked and all the animals have been released. For a minute I contemplate what would be more impressive to straddle while taking on the mob, a lion or a giraffe? Talk soon turns to forming a vigilante posse but we end up falling out over what we should call ourselves.
By 1am it appears that the violence is dying down. Though suspicious, I head to my bedroom, where the rest of my house is already setting up camp. A safety sleepover is absolutely necessary in times like these.
We wake up on Tuesday morning, all alive and nothing burnt down. I live to fear another day.