Restrained by the wrists with solid steel, the cold shiny, indented metal beneath my buttocks, my perch in the enclosed compartment in the back of a police van was a sign of the discomfort to come.

To be led away in the middle of the street, escorted by a police officer and thrown inside this metallic prison, can only be utter humiliation, there's nowhere to hide.

A slam and a thud, the twin doors of the vehicle encase me in a cage with a perspex wall and iron bars. There's no room to stretch my legs.

The van stops at a back entrance to the Bradford headquarters of West Yorkshire Police, the doors are pulled open and again I'm led away, this time into the lower bowels of the station.

First stop, still in cuffs, is the holding area. A rectangular room, CCTV trained on me as I sit next to the accompanying officer, here I wait and wait. Having been arrested you could be waiting here for hours, depending on how many other people have been rounded up.

The door opens and I'm taken to a desk. I'm suddenly aware of the low ceilings, the lack of windows, it heightens my feeling of entrapment.

Then begins a process of surrender. I'm asked my name, date of birth, if I understand my rights. Do I want a solicitor? Do I want the police to contact someone to tell them where I am?

Then it's my possessions and a search. Pockets out-turned, stripped of my jacket, belt, watch, jewellery, money. A probation officer runs a metal detector over my body, my collar is checked for concealed items.

I'm ordered to take my socks off and turn them inside out. I agree to a DNA test to confirm I am who I say I am.

My arms held out from my sides, stripped of possessions, my personal details given over, the humiliation amid the frankness of law enforcement is complete. In situations like this, arrested on suspicion of possession with intent to supply Class A drugs, a strip search and a mandatory drugs test is the norm.

Next is a choice. Would I rather have ten hairs plucked from my head or two mouth swabs taken? I go for the latter. My fingerprints are scanned in and checked against the national computer database.

I'm led off to the cells. The window of the cell allows in light, but is misted and lined with bars. There's a low bench opposite the heavy, locked door on which lies a thin, foam cover. Sitting there waiting is the very picture of being shamed and alone.

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