For the past year, I’ve being travelling across London from my home in Hackney to school in Ealing. On the face of it, you couldn’t find two more contrasting suburbs: the melting pot of London’s east feels a million kilometres away from the sleepy atmosphere of Ealing’s suburbia. I’ve always been happy with my choice to live in Hackney, even though the commute to school was a long one. Nothing ever happens in Ealing — it’s pretty, but it’s dull.

On Monday, I set off to collect the graduation certificate I’d left behind a week earlier. It was only when I returned on the overground train from Liverpool Street that I noticed anything amiss — a group of helicopters swarming in the distance, close to Hackney Downs, my station. It was about four o’clock at this stage.

As I walked towards my house I noticed a backlog of buses, and confusion on the roads. Two old men surveyed the scene, one of them commenting “I don’t agree with the violence”.

In light of what had happened in Tottenham, I suspected the worst. By the time I’d reached my road — Clarence Road — my suspicions were confirmed. A few days earlier I’d heard a group of young men near my house discussing which ways the CCTV cameras were facing at that end of the street. I puzzled over it at the time, but now it made more sense.

Many people were standing outside their houses, which isn’t an unusual sight here. People from the Jamaican community often gather well into the night outside Aunty Fatty’s cafe to drink, smoke and be merry. Car stereos become streetside jukeboxes, with dice games adding to the festive atmosphere.

But today, it felt different — everyone was standing on the road, looking in the same direction — down towards Mare Street.

As I walked indoors, the TV was on and my housemate, Jess, was on the phone. From both I gleaned that rioters had gathered in Mare Street, the continuation of our road. They were looting, targeting JD Sports in particular.

After discussing the situation, I went out and did what many others were doing — stocking up before locking themselves in. All along Lower Clapton Road, businesses were rolling down their shutters. The local Tesco supermarket, already bearing evidence of earlier, unrelated consumer discontent with its partially smashed window, wasn’t taking chances either.

I managed to get some beers at a local off-licence, which had most of its shutters down. The bloke behind the counter told me to be careful out there, and kindly suggested I barricade myself indoors. Most customers were there for the same reason — preparing for their own safe, family friendly TV-side riot parties.

As the afternoon wore on, the riot began moving up our road. I had to collect my friend, Rosie, from a side street, after she phoned to inform me she’d been refused entry on her normal approach to Clarence Road.

After I walked her back to my place, the TV beamed images of just down the road, captured by the choppers buzzing overhead. It was actually difficult to hear the television over the noise of the helicopters.

This was when more friends arrived, and after a while we went outside together and walked towards the rabble. It sounds like a stupid decision now that I write it, but at the time the atmosphere wasn’t full of dread. Perhaps because most of the participants seemed very pleased with themselves, there was actually a sort of excitement in the air. Mostly made up of teenagers from the Pembury Estate at the end of Clarence Road, the majority of the rioters had T-shirts or bandanas covering their faces, as well as hoods pulled down. However, some remained brazenly uncovered — probably an unwise move in a country where CCTV is the most-watched station.

With all the amateur photographers, the families looking out of windows or standing at their doors, and streams of cyclists coming through the crowd, it felt strangely like a street party. A rainbow formed overhead, framing a helicopter against the darkening sky.

Photography and filming stopped abruptly when we came within sight of the rioters. Onlookers warned anyone openly filming to put their phones away. I’d heard of many cases where these amateur journalists had been mugged, and I didn’t want to be one of their numbers.

I could see the police in the background, about 100 metres away — very contained and not moving much. Every time they advanced, there was slight panic and excitement and a wave of people would come forward, first running, and then walking, as it became clear nothing drastic was going to happen. Then they would return to their posts, breaking up bits of paving to use as missiles, and hurling those along with abuse. It was in these bursts of activity that I felt anxious, and retreated to my house.

There, back in television land, the scene appeared far more apocalyptic than it did on the ground. The same juicy footage was playing on a loop, and I actually felt more anxious there than when I’d been outside. Luckily though, the violence I’d witnessed had been low-key — restricted to rock throwing and a couple of torched cars. I can’t imagine how terrifying it must have been for the shop owners and residents of buildings set alight. I also heard later on, via a warning on Facebook, of cyclists being mugged at nearby London Fields.

A few more curious forays into the street and finally the police managed to disperse the crowd. People scrambled down side roads, leaving broken paving stones, burnt-out cars and overturned rubbish bins in their wake.

Rosie and I finally made the walk to her place on Rowhill Road, a street branching off mine, which had been an escape route for many of the rioters. We had a dinner of fish and white wine, and as I looked out of her kitchen window, smoke continued to rise beneath the helicopters.

Later, back at my house, it felt like election night — friends had come over with some brews, and we listened to a parade of politicians assessing the damage to their constituencies. As the evening wore on, my friends braved the journey home, until it was just me and Julian.

It was about 11pm when I heard that riots had broken out in Ealing.