A rude wake-up call
Petronella Wyatt
You never think it is going to happen to you. Not even when you read in the papers about women being mugged in what used to be safe areas of London such as Knightsbridge and Belgravia. You never believe it. Even though my own street in St John's Wood has become increasingly dangerous. I had heard rumours a few months ago of a shooting and someone being mugged nearby but I took no notice. Until last weekend.
I had been to a party at the Polish Hearth Club in Exhibition Road. I left at about 10.30. The man at the door asked me if I would like him to call me a taxi, but stupidly I said no. I was in a hurry to get home and was sure I could get one in the street outside, So I stood there and waited, and waited. The few taxis that did drive by were occupied. One passed with his light on after ten minutes, but failed to stop. So I decided to walk towards Knightsbridge, taking the Brompton Road route.
The street was fairly deserted for a Friday night. Once more it was the same story. No taxis, or only a few with their lights off. I began to experience a feeling of creeping anxiety. The nearest Tube was a good 20 minutes' walk away. Surely, if I waited a taxi must pass by eventually. So I waited, staring up the street. It was then that I heard the sound of steps quickening their pace.
My nervousness heightened. As a cautionary measure I took off my rings and put them in my handbag. I was smartly but not revealingly dressed and I pulled my shawl tighter around my body. I began to walk, fast. The steps began to move faster too. Suddenly I found myself confronted by two youths who stank of liquor. They were white, had darkish hair and were, as far as I can recall, rather ordinary-looking. They began by shouting at me. One said, 'We'll take you home.' No thank you,' I replied, trying to sound unconcerned. This made them angry. They began to push me and shout obscenities. 'Come with us,' they kept saying, menacingly.
I stood my ground and kept begging them to go away. I wished I had a man with me or that someone might stop, but no one did. Enraged by my reaction, they began to pull at my clothes. 'What have you got there?' I kept a firm grip on my handbag. 'Only money for a taxi,' I said, barely able to speak in my mounting state of panic.
Then they noticed a pair of silver and diamante earrings which I had forgotten to remove. 'We'll take those, then,' they said and yanked them off my ears. Luckily they were clip-ons, so my lobes suffered no real damage. But at this point I began to run. There was an old red telephone booth and I shut myself in it. I tried to dial various numbers but the phone was out of order.
After five minutes of despair I turned to see if the youths were still there. Fortunately they hadn't followed me and must have run back in the opposite direction. I pulled myself together and ventured out on to the street. After a few minutes a free taxi did come by. I fell into it and then, pathetically, burst into tears. The taxi driver was kind and kept asking me what the matter was, but I only sobbed out: 'Please take me home.' When we finally reached my house, I begged him to wait until I was inside the front door, which he did. I then collapsed in an undignified heap.
I cared not a jot for the loss of my earrings, although they had not been cheap. I was in shock that this could have happened to me. I felt ashamed of my complacency. I had refused to countenance that my beloved London was no longer safe for unaccompanied women. although I had been told so time and time again.
When I reported the incident at my local police station, I noticed that the walls had more posters about the dangers of speeding and drink-driving than mugging. I waited 20 minutes before anyone could see me. The man was business-like and sort of sympathetic. He gave me a crime reference number and said that the police station nearest the mugging would be in touch. The whole of that day I felt ill and tearful. The relevant police station did get in touch. They told me that a bunch of youths had been working that area. They were not serious muggers, but, usually drunk, they harassed lone women and took things from them. They said they would be in touch again if they apprehended anyone.
Meanwhile I am still nervous and emotional. I was lucky, though. It could have been a lot worse, But I fear for those young girls who go out wearing revealing dresses because they are told it's the fashion. It isn't worth it. Had my shirt showed my bosom, I might have been raped. So I say to mothers, London is dangerous, everywhere. Don't let your daughters go out at night in mini-skirts or tops slashed to the stomach. Don't let them come home alone. Or they might not come home at all.
Previous page
