Rowan Pelling: Don't carry a bag, don't wear heels, don't walk, don't be small, don't be me

David Blunkett's plans for an auxiliary civilian force to supplement the police seem pretty timely to me. My week was dominated by cops and robbers, and the robbers came out way on top. The whole business struck me hard because for years I was immune to theft; perhaps because I lost possessions so readily I needed no outside agency to do my own dirty work. True enough, there was the occasion when my Austin Allegro disappeared from outside a friend's house and was found 300 yards away, looking at home among the cabbages on an allotment – but the visual joke was probably worth the inconvenience.

Recently things have changed. My purse has been lifted three times in 18 months and my pocket-size colleague, Annie Blinkhorn, has been knocked to the floor twice by unmanly villains. The final insult was that they legged it with her make-up, leaving us wondering how those Camberwell brothers look in Lancombe's Rouge Idole. The police weren't much help. Their thoughts on the matter can be summarised as follows: don't carry handbags; don't wear heels; don't be small; don't be female. They're also not keen on women walking anywhere; at the same time they don't want you to use unlicensed minicabs – even though the only other vehicles cruising round London at 2.30am are police cars.

Take Wednesday night. There we were, a group of revellers trying to make our way across London. We would have walked, but two of us were tottering in four-inch heels and one of us was cradling a giant stone foot. This baroque item was the Bad Sex Prize, an annual award for the most hilariously inappropriate sex scene published in a novel. This year's proud recipient was Christopher Hart, author of Rescue Me. As we hobbled along Pall Mall we spotted a battered old Merc which screamed "mini-cab". The jovial driver invited us all to hop in. At which point a police car drew up and the ill-tempered driver told us all, to hop out. "Why?" we chorused, "He's unlicensed," said the PC, "and he's stopped on double yellows – pervert!"

But he was fingering the wrong guy: before him stood four bona fide perverts who, between them, were responsible for an erotic magazine, a book entitled Oral Pleasure, and a passage of sex writing which compared a hand-job to Sir Ranulph Fiennes' conquest of the North Pole. Blind to this depravity, he let us on our way. A hundred yards up the road we were reclaimed by our friend in the Merc.

Two hours later, in Soho, when the robbers and cut-throats were out in force, there wasn't a policeman to be seen. Christopher, the giant foot and I were practising the forbidden art of walking. We had just reached Greek Street when someone jostled past me with a sinister caress. I knew at once my purse had gone and spun round to see two men making off down the side of the Prince Edward Theatre. Unnoticed by Chris, who was in a reverie over his mono-ped, I gave chase in my vertiginous heels. It was only when I was halfway down a dark alley that I realised that this was expressly against police advice – especially when the suspects are hooking up with another eight dodgy-looking guys down the end of a dark alley. But I could see one of my assailants fishing into his jacket and – lo! – there was the silvery glint of my purse. Adrenaline pumped through me, I rushed up to the men, and these words fell from my mouth: "Excuse me – could I please have that back?" My inner vigilante had metamorphosed into Home Counties girl.

The gang looked at me in astonishment then burst out laughing. "Sure thing, baby," said my thief, handing the purse over and giving me an enormous hug.

It was then that I had my brain-wave. Blunkett's task force should consist of women tackling petty crime in the manner of Celia Johnson: "I'd be ever so grateful if you didn't drive so fast," and "I'm awfully sorry, but I'm going to have to confiscate that knuckleduster." Good manners breed good will, while calling people perverts breeds - if not perversion – total disrespect.