It's twilight hours in Kingston and I'm hanging around for a council meeting.

I'm not alone, there's an entourage of screaming, fairly drunk teenagers, each vying for the attention of one of the police community support officers (PCSOs) guarding the alleys to the town centre.

There's no shortage. I've counted six so far, but I'm starting to feel like I'm in an overgrown playground.

At 25, I've not forgotten the relative importance of short skirts, boys, cheap cider and park benches.

And I'll be the first to admit, I'm staring at the ground hoping not to be spoken to by a 13-year-old as she does an impressive high-heeled sprint down Clarence Street screaming at her mate Kelly.

But in most cases, I'd say this isn't a downward spiral of antisocial behaviour, more a slightly wayward, and arguably necessary, learning curve.

There's a quiet lull as I turn into Thames Street, towards the Apple Market, before I'm met by another group of 10 to 15 teenagers, discussing the worst scenario if the police catch them drinking alcohol.

They decide it would be taken off them and I'm left wondering if they're waiting for just that, and whether the presence of these officers provides just the entertainment they are looking for. It's becoming clear who has the upper hand here.

It's Tuesday evening, Kingston apparently has a low-crime rate, and the only action I can see is what I've described so why else is the town so heavily guarded with PCSOs?

It makes you wonder whether the teenagers would have bothered coming out to play if there wasn't someone there to stop them.

They've secured an evening of fun and, dare I say, just enough disarray to make sure Kingston's authoritative eyes and ears are there to record events.

Maybe they could come and join me at the executive meeting and really see order at its best.