Mugged again
Petronella Wyatt
It'sjust not safe for a girl to walk the London streets any more. Please don't get me wrong. My circumstances are not yet so reduced that I have been forced to take up the oldest profession. I simply refer to walking. You know, putting one leg in front of the other in the conventional fashion.
A year ago I was mugged in Kensington. A group of youths ran off with my earrings. Two months ago my mother was mugged in St John's Wood. The other day, it happened again — to me, Only this time I was mugged in Fulham. Soon there won't be an area in London where a member of my family hasn't been attacked. Mr Livingstone, do I qualify for a prize?
It happened after I had left a drinks party. I was walking through a quiet residential area looking for a cab. It was about nine at night and not yet dark. In case the muggers need reminding, I was wearing a white skirt, a black sweater and carrying a Chanel handbag.
All at once two young men appeared. One was black — sorry, but he was — and riding a bicycle. The other was white. Both were scruffy and in their twenties. They began to circle me. Uh, oh, I thought, trouble coming. But maybe they simply wanted to pinch my bottom as opposed to anything more valuable.
I was wrong. The one on foot said rather menacingly, 'Are you looking for a cab? There aren't many round here,' The best thing to do, I thought, was not to reply but simply to walk purposefully on. Before I had moved two metres, the man on the bike was tugging at my handbag. I thought I was winning, until his companion pushed me on to the pavement. I felt a huge stab of pain as the skin was scraped off my left leg. 'You idiot,' I shouted, ineffectually as it turned out. My handbag was lost to me as they both scarpered.
The next half hour was spent stumbling about in the direction of the nearest main road in search of a taxi. When I finally spotted one with its light on, I hobbled towards the driver, His behaviour vindicated everything I have ever written about black cabbies. He gave me a rather dirty look, probably noticing that I had no bag and therefore no means of paying him until I arrived home, 'Please take me to St John's Wood,' I asked. 'I've just been mugged.' He gave me an even filthier look and replied, 'I've heard that story before.' I pleaded, I offered to show him my leg, which was now bleeding on to my shoe. Eventually he agreed to drive me back to my house. When we arrived, he said, 'Hurry up and get the money, or I'll call the police,' I would have thought that was my job.
After this gentlemanly knight of the road had driven away, I assessed the damage. My handbag had contained my credit cards, some cash, my house keys and my diary. I considered phoning the police, but the last time I did so they immediately phoned the newspapers. The next day a story appeared in one of the tabloids alleging that I had been relieved of diamonds worth thousands of pounds. (My earrings had been paste.) In any case they never did anything about catching the muggers, so I didn't see the point of contacting the police again. Probably it was their fault I was attacked the second time, "Ere, look for that Petronella Wyatt girl. She's got rocks worth millions.'
Instead I am taking the advice of a Transylvanian friend. She told me to think 'bad things' about the muggers. Apparently, when her boyfriend left her she 'wished him bad.' It certainly worked. Two weeks later he couldn't move. He had broken his back and was in hospital for months. So I am 'wishing' the muggers 'bad'. With a bit of luck, they'll go riding pillion on their bike and fall off into a pothole.
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