the unexpected joy of getting mugged
(sort of)
I got mugged the other day without knowing it. It was early evening, I was walking down Oxford St. toward Soho to meet some friends. It was warm, I was wearing a sundress, denim jacket and flats and had headphones on in, half-listening to a podcast about the culture wars and neuroscience, how we’re all going mad. The pavement was lively but not thronged as it often is on bright, balmy summer nights in town. I felt light and bouncy, happy to be out, predisposed toward my fellow city folk. My lips were dry so I stopped for a moment and rooted in my handbag for some balm — then my podcast cut out. When I looked for my phone it was gone.
What surprised me in that moment was I had no sense of menace leading up to the mugging, if you can even call it that. No spidey tingle at all. And I’m prone to such feelings, for better or worse. I pride myself on ‘having a sense.’ Even in my own neighbourhood, on the familiar, nondescript street of grimy half-gentrified terraced houses where I’ve lived for nearly a decade, I occasionally find myself catapulted into high alert. A cold finger runs down my spine, my field of vision expands. It’s an animal twitch, not panic exactly, just the hint of a threat. It’s not that anything terrible is happening or going to happen for sure, but the understanding that it might. It could. There are opportunists, tricksters and grifters about. Muggings in the offing, burglaries and drunks. Minor brewing threats with the in-built potential to turn violent or worse. Street crime in London doesn’t happen half as much as it used to (seriously, check the stats), but it’s still A Thing. It never won’t be. And look, I’ve chosen to make my home in a city whose population a quarter of my entire (geographically vas) birth nation. There are just a lot of people here, living large, surviving and struggling to get by. A lot of decent folk. A lot of jerks. There’s just stuff going on all the time — good, bad, happy, sad and dreadful. You might not always be aware of the full swirl but the underground London is as historied and ever present as the official top drawer one. Strip away the Mums pushing prams, the commuters, the shoppers, the car-washers, garden potters, the work men, the traffic, the joggers, the school children, tourists, dogs and their walkers and there is a seedier, more chaotic city hustling away underneath. We are all connected to it somehow, in some way, it touches everyone for better or worse. And every once in a while I feel myself tune into it. It’s possible I’m just in a dark mood when this happens, but that’s how it feels: I suddenly I see it. I feel it inside me.
But do I? Maybe. Maybe not.
When get the feeling, I become hyper-aware of the lads on e-scooters whizzing about when they ought to be in school, the hunted old men on speed bikes, the hollow-eyed junkies pacing circles on the pavement in front of the tube station where they’ve gone back to playing classical music over the loud speakers at night. It doesn’t exactly freak me out. I’ve lived here too long, seen the neighbourhood’s ups and downs, but it alters the way I move. It makes me aware of where my hands are. My handbag. What I’m wearing. Who’s around. The flexibility of my soles. It doesn’t take much. The whirr of a helicopter over the cemetery. Coppers on an unlikely corner, chatting amiably, pressing buttons on their scanners, eyes on the road. It’s not fear, really it isn’t, but a heightened state of awareness, a mounting alarm. It’s the feeling of losing my bearings on familiar ground. Something’s happening. I don’t understand. Something’s different. Something’s afoot.
The weird thing is, I felt none of these feelings that sunny evening on Oxford St., which is why it took me several confused minutes to grasp the fact that my phone — newish, expensive and regrettably uninsured — had been snatched in plain sight.
I would like to say I did not freak out. I soldiered on. Went to the appointed place at the appointed time. Met up. Laughed a few laughs. Drank a couple of drinks. Exchanged anecdotes. A kind friend paid the bill and ordered me an Uber home. I was back home by eleven. Back at my desk, I checked in with my phone online only to discover it out past curfew hanging out at a pub on the Kilburn High Road. The cheek! I briefly considered going out to get it, then decided that was just dumb. The next morning I checked again only find it had migrated to house just three miles north. I knew the neighbourhood but not well. It was dodgy for sure but close enough on the map that the idea of going there did not feel dangerous. I called the phone (no answer) then called the Met. An impatient woman with a robotic voice took a report and assured me an officer would call back shortly. I remembered I hadn’t given her my landline number after I hung up.
That day and most of the next I spent hours gazing at my poor kidnapped phone. There is was, memory wiped, safely locked-up and languishing at 84 XXX Road. I imagined it at the bottom of some pothead teenager’s rucksack, under a pile of unwashed PE kit. I’m not sure why. Mostly I just missed it and wanted it back. The stuff on it wasn’t the issue, it was all backed up in the Cloud. It was the device itself. It’d cost nearly £900 on a plan and I was still paying it off. I decided whoever had stolen it wasn’t very clever. Apple devices are notoriously traceable. I know people who’ve been burgled only to find their iPad and laptop left on the kitchen counter untouched. I felt violated and stupid, then I got angry: I hopped in my banged up old Volvo and drove to where it was.