I didn’t realise what had happened until Child #6 told me she had seen the whole incident. She had noticed the guy because he was dressed up as The Joker from Batman. Hiding in plain sight then. We were passing near Times Square, where no one takes any notice of what anyone is caring to wear, apart, perhaps, from the Naked Cowboy who remains almost true to his name even in sub-zero temperatures. He deserves all the tips he gets in the winter, to be honest.
Anyway, it was crowded and I was clinging
to my handbag in the way that you find with people who grew up in London in the
Seventies. Then someone knocked against me so that I fell into He Who Knows
Best. I didn’t think anything of it until #6 related her tale and I realised that someone had indeed slipped their
hand into my coat pocket. I felt it on some subconscious level at the time but
only afterwards did I connect it with the not so amusing Joker.
I lived in Paris in my twenties, paying my
way by waitressing. (I was a terrible waitress, but thankfully my British accent
saved me from almost certain dismissal.) In the evenings my friends and I would
wander the streets of the city, pretending to absorb the culture, smoking
menthol cigarettes and believing we were oh so cool. And we saw pick pockets
galore. I’m not entirely sure there were enough careless tourists to go round,
in fact. Night after night we would see these sneaky little artists at work,
moving among the crowds like characters from ‘Oliver’. They would dip their
hands into a handbag in seconds and then disappear as though they were never
there in the first place. Their poor victims never saw it coming. It was most
impressive.
I have always been convinced that I’m too
streetwise to fall foul of these chancers. But you can become complacent when
you live in a city for a while. You aren’t a tourist any more, this is your
home, so you wander around with the carefree attitude of people who are
comfortable in their surroundings. And then you get careless.
I think back to the times I have stuffed my
cell phone into my pocket so that it is easily accessible when I am expecting a
call. I have been lucky up to now. So I have had a wake-up call and henceforth my
phone will remain zipped up in my bag
and my bag will be across my body and my hands will be on top of my bag. There
may even be a padlock involved. And all that will be in my pocket is a
crumpled-up old tissue. You’re welcome, Mr Pick Pocket.
Inspiration struck today at ... Times Square
You have to visit this iconic New York tourist
hell at least once, and there is undoubtedly an energy to the place, but for
people like me who hyperventilate in a crowd, this might not be the best idea.
Pros: Reminds you that the quiet life really
is the way to go.
Cons: Bad for epileptics, what with all the
flashing lights everywhere you turn.
