I want my file: Britain's long-awaited Freedom of Information Act is finally coming into effect. On paper, it is supposed to affect over 100,000 public authorities and open the doors of government secrecy. But don't kid yourself that you will ever get access to your files held by the intelligence agencies. They are exempt. And you know why.

"Hello?"

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

"Hello?"

"Yes, hello, my name's Theresa, and I'm still here. I've been hanging on for ages. What's going on?"

"Theresa who?"

Theresa did not like the tone of the woman's voice. "Look, I've already given my details to that other woman, the one before you, and I'm not going through it all again. Put me through to someone who knows what's going on ... please."

"Who would you like to speak to?" said the woman huffily.

Theresa drew in her breath. She hated having to say the same thing over and over, and that always happened when you called a government department. "You're the Home Office," she said sharply, "you tell me. I've read it in the newspaper: January the first, they said. Jan first 2005, and we can get our files under the Freedom of Information Act. I've been waiting for this for months. Well, I want mine. I want my file."

Out of the corner of her eye Theresa saw Paul take a couple of steps towards the telephone booth. It was his way of saying that she was beginning to shout. A lot of people she knew moved away when they believed that she was becoming hot and bothered, but Paul came closer.

Sometimes she didn't get it, she knew anger was foreign to him--"Take it easy"--was his favourite saying. But Theresa found it very, very easy to switch into "That's it I've had enough" mode.

"Excuse me?" the woman at the other end of the phone said pointedly.

Theresa sighed. What was the matter with these people? Enough. "I want to speak to someone in charge. I want my file."

"Which department?"

"The Home Office."

"Yes, you're through to the Home Office, but which bit do you want, it's a very large place."

"Well, from what I think, the whole bleedin' lot. But let's start with the James Bondie bunch."

Silence.

"Who's in charge of MI5, M16 and Special Branch?" Theresa demanded.

The silence continued.

"Hello? I want my file thank you very much. Or should that be files, plural, dossiers dodgy or otherwise, verbatim audio recordings, digital camera tapes, digital photographs, mobile phone video streaming G3, G83 how's your father, dyed hair, DNA thieves, and--"

"I'll have to put you on hold."

"Oh no you don't, where are--"

Paul was now in front of the phone box and staring at her. She stared at him. "I need some more coins. I'm on hold again."

"I don't know why you can't use the phone in your own home, or your mobile," he said.

"You know exactly why. Those f ... ers are bugging my phones. I hardly call anyone any more. I can barely run my business--did I tell you that they're also trying to steal my ideas? They haven't got any of their own."

"They've always stolen ideas from black people," Paul chuckled. "What's the problem? Just steal their ones--even if theirs aren't as good as ours."

"Really? I don't think so, Copy the bad ideas they put into practice? Could you get me some change please, and get me a couple of newspapers. I'll get the rest later."

Paul walked leisurely into the supermarket. Good, Theresa thought. She could keep an eye on him from the booth and monitor what he bought and what he stopped to look at. She took out her mobile from its pouch in her rucksack. 4 o'clock. It would be time for a coffee soon. She called herself: The Girl In The Coffee Shop.

In reality, Theresa thought, each of us is our own file. What could they know that we didn't know already, anyway? Each of us holds the key to our own psychological profile. We unlock ourselves.

Opening the doors of government secrecy that's what this Act was supposed to be doing. But they still want us to live in a surveillance society. Arseholes. Think they can use their "War On Terror" to "get", terrorise and harass all the people who won't keep their mouths shut or their pens still and stop criticising them.

"Your change madam."

"At last." She fed the coins into the box. "Jesus, where has this bitch got to?"

"Maybe she's on her tea break," Paul teased, knowing that this would infuriate her.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

"What effing tea break? I might have known this wasn't going to be easy. You can't change a secretive culture easily. What did that guide say? I wrote something down on a postit, God I hope I didn't leave it in ..." Theresa fumbled in the carrier bag next to her rucksack. "Yeah, here it is. Right, listen to this: 'The Act affects more than 100,000 public authorities and means a wealth of previously secret information is now accessible for the first time ever--but only if you know where to look and how to ask the right questions.' You see."

"But they don't want us to know," Paul said quietly.

"Exactly. That's right. That's the point. That's why we have to make the bloody effort to find out. F ... 'em. They're supposed to be answerable to us."

"Who's us?"

"Us. We. The public. The people."

"We're black, Theresa. You of all people know that. I don't know what's the matter with you. One minute you're totally brilliant, then you'll come out with the most naive statement."

"What do you mean 'naive'? When was I 'naive'? I'm not as 'naive' as you, mate."

"When you say things like 'we the public'. I'm a black man, I've never been a member of the public here. When was the last time a black man who was murdered by white men got justice here? You're a black woman, right? All that stuff you've been going through, do you think that they would ever think of, or even want to think of, doing any of that shit to a white woman? We're black, Theresa, the laws are used to target us, not to protect us. We're left to protect ourselves. You should know that by now."

This was Paul. Patient, quiet, take it slowly Paul. But set out a scenario that was balls and you got the balls kicked back.

"God, all right, I only said--hello?"

"Hello, how can I help?"

"Yes, my name's Theresa and I'm calling from north London, and I'd like to speak to someone in charge of helping me get my file please."

"And what file would that be?"

Theresa's voice hardened. "The file," she enunciated slowly, "with the stuff about me in it. I want to make it public. Photographs and all."

"What photographs?"

"You know, the cameras, the recordings, all that crap--who are you?"

"My name's Sam, and I'm here to help."

"Well, Sam, you can help by getting me somebody who knows all about the new Freedom of Information Act. Someone who can tell me how I can get hold of my MI5 file. I know they've got one on me, those bastards. They've been at it with their chums, the CIA."

"That would be MI6."

"What?"

"MI5 is domestic. MI6 does foreign. The CIA is foreign," said Sam.

"Oh, really? CIA is foreign, is it? To the UK? Yeah? I don't know why Tony Blair and David Blunkett don't hire a couple of rooms in the White House and work from there, then their brains wouldn't have to keep commuting. Listen, Sam, I've got no idea who you are but I'd like to speak to the manager. Seeing as I can't speak to Blunketty-blank."

"If it's about how the new Act's going to work, I am here to assist members of the public in getting quick, efficient, satisfactory service delivery of their requests for informational access. For instance, you might want to know how your MP votes on issues that are important to you, or how safe the railways are, or who's the best doctor in your area, which takeaways have food hygiene violations, how many parking tickets your street got last year, or are the police doing an effective job.

"I can provide you with many further examples, and we have some very useful websites. We are replacing what has been seen, rather unfortunately perhaps, as the 'government's right to secrecy' with what we believe to be is the public's 'Right To Know'.

Sam's emphasis on "Right To Know" twanged in Theresa's ear. Her sixth sense was stirring. "I know about the websites--I want a hard copy of my file."

"What file?"

"My MI5 file. I'm making a formal request under the Freedom of Information Act."

"I'm afraid, Theresa, that the security services are exempt. National security."

"What do you mean? What about public interest?"

"MI5 files are exempt under national security."

"You're kidding, aren't you? What about my security? I thought it was freedom of information? I don't want to know about parking ticket violations--I want to know what MI5's been up to. They're turning this country into a police state. Jesus, talk about the KGB--we've got it here, mate, Big Bruv."

Paul was trying to squeeze into the booth. She ignored him.

"MI5 is exempt," Sam repeated.

"I want my--" Silence. The money had run out. Theresa banged the phone down. "I hope you're inundated with requests," she screamed at the coin box. "I hope the British public go nuts and make millions of requests, all kinds of requests to all kinds of agencies for all kinds of free information." She looked at her mobile. 4.30 pm. It was time for a visit to the coffee shop.

PS In my last column, change "indefensible" back to what it was: "indefeasible". It's important.