I still love my job. That hasn’t changed.
But if you’re going to take a seat beside me on the Clapham omnibus—the place where the “ordinary reasonable person” is supposed to sit—then I owe you something more than a warm reflection. I owe you the truth about what this role actually demands, what it protects, and what is at stake if it is misunderstood.
Because the people I meet are often described as “ordinary.”
And that word is where the problem begins.
The myth of the “ordinary person”
The law likes the idea of the reasonable person. Calm. Rational. Able to understand what is said to them and respond accordingly.
But in a custody suite, that person rarely exists.
Instead, I meet people who nod when they don’t understand.
People who say “yes” because silence feels dangerous.
People who are frightened, confused, unwell, overwhelmed—or simply unable to process what is happening quickly enough to protect themselves.
They do not look extraordinary.
They look like anyone you might sit next to on a bus.
And that is precisely why the safeguard exists.
Why I am there — not as a bystander, but as a safeguard
My role as an Appropriate Adult is not to sit quietly and observe.
It is not to offer comfort alone, though sometimes comfort matters.
I am there because the law recognises a risk:
that without support, a vulnerable person may not understand their rights, may not be able to communicate effectively, and may—without meaning to—participate in their own injustice.
Under PACE, I have responsibilities that carry weight:
• To ensure the person understands what is happening to them
• To facilitate communication, not just listen to it
• To protect their rights and welfare throughout the process
• And, when necessary, to intervene
That last part matters more than people realise.
Because sometimes fairness is not passive.
The moment where it matters
There are moments in interviews where something shifts.
A question is repeated, slightly differently each time.
A suspect agrees, then hesitates, then agrees again.
The pace quickens. The language becomes more complex.
To an outside observer, it may look like progress.
To me, it can look like risk.
This is where the role becomes real. Not reflective, not philosophical—real.
I might say:
“Can we pause? I’m not satisfied they understand the question.”
Or:
“Can that be rephrased more simply?”
Or, if necessary:
“I don’t think it’s appropriate to continue at this stage.”
These are not comfortable moments.
They are not supposed to be.
But they are exactly what the safeguard is designed to do:
to interrupt the quiet drift toward unfairness.
Independence is not optional
I work alongside police officers, solicitors, custody staff. There is often professionalism, sometimes warmth.
But I am not part of their process.
I am there for one person only:
the suspect.
That means I must be willing—when required—to challenge, to question, to slow things down. Not because anyone is acting in bad faith, but because the system itself moves quickly, and vulnerability does not.
Independence is not about opposition.
It is about clarity of purpose.
Not everyone gets an Appropriate Adult — and that matters
It is true that vulnerability is everywhere. You can see it if you look closely enough.
But the law requires more than intuition.
It requires a threshold.
There must be reason to believe that a person cannot:
• Understand what is happening
• Communicate effectively
• Or safeguard their own interests
This is not always easy to determine. Sometimes it is obvious. Often it is not.
And when it is missed, the consequences are not abstract.
They are recorded in interview transcripts.
In inconsistent answers.
In admissions that may not be reliable.
In outcomes that cannot easily be undone.
This is about rights, not just care
It is easy to describe this role in human terms—empathy, patience, connection.
And those things matter. They matter a great deal.
But they are not the foundation of the role.
The foundation is rights.
The right to understand.
The right to participate fairly.
The right not to be disadvantaged because of vulnerability.
These are not optional extras in the justice process. They are central to it.
Without them, the idea of a fair trial—enshrined in Article 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights—begins to weaken long before a case ever reaches a courtroom.
Why I still love this job
I love this job not because it is easy, or even because it is always rewarding.
I love it because, in small, often unseen ways, it holds the line.
It ensures that the person sitting across from authority is not alone in a moment where they are most at risk of being misunderstood—or of misunderstanding everything.
It reminds the system that the “reasonable person” is not a real person.
But the one in front of us is.
And they deserve to be treated as such.
So, take a seat on the omnibus
If you sit beside me, you might not notice anything remarkable at first.
Just another person. Another conversation. Another process unfolding.
But look closer.
Watch for the pause.
The hesitation.
The moment where something could go wrong—and doesn’t.
That is where this role lives.
Not in grand gestures.
But in the quiet, necessary work of making fairness real.
Independent Persons 