Morning:
10°c
Let early into the National Gallery to see its new Batoni exhibition without the "How are you?" distraction of other critics, I left it exhausted by the physical and intellectual effort and the cathartic effect induced in me by opera. In this odd state of detachment I felt slightly incapable of rejoining the real world of Trafalgar Square, by then post-sunset and crepuscular, crowded with scurrying figures homeward-bound. It was, as it were, a scholar-gipsy moment, a "fly our paths, our feverish contact fly" moment and then cold reason took my hand. "Coffee," I said to myself, and went to Pret A Manger for a double espresso and a dash of milk. With cold reason fortified, though still brooding on Batoni, I made for the Embankment and was suddenly in yet another world.
Someone, a man, seized the strap of my bag and yanked it from my shoulder. I yanked back. There was no directed violence, but in the scuffle I was thumped against a wall and received a glancing blow across my mouth. I think the encounter was wordless - certainly I have no recollection of shouting and no passer-by intervened. Within very few seconds the man ran off round a corner, the episode was over and I still had my bag, but I was shaken and blood was streaming from my upper lip - thank the Lord for paper tissues.
I walked on, mopping my mouth and occasionally looking in shop windows to examine my reflection; the bleeding would not stop. I bought an Evening Standard - how odd to be so calm about it. I wondered what my assailant, had he succeeded in snatching my bag, would have made of its contents - a heavy book on Batoni, a pair of clean silk socks in case I want to buy a pair of shoes (how fastidious one can be), pens, paper and a spray to quell angina, nothing of any use to a homeless, hungry man.
What should I have done? Found a policeman? - where? Reported to the nearest police station? - and, pray, where is that? Gone to a hospital? - for a split lip? I had lost nothing, come to no real harm and could recall nothing of the man other than his height and hood - what then could be the point of such formalities? I would have become a statistic, and that is the point, for of this nasty little episode all concerned with crime statistics will never be aware. I imagine that up and down the country there must be thousands of such unreported minor acts of violence distorting the statistics; of this the consequence is the increasing complacency of ministers, mayors and the police.
I would have given my assailant money had he asked for it - the pathetic can always open my pursestrings; instead he has given me something by which to remember him - a damaged nerve, I think, that makes my lip feel that it is still bleeding. This will turn into a tic.
Reader views (1)
Your reaction, and your sentiments, do you great credit, Brian - as ever.
- Edward Lyons, Essex, 29/02/2008 18:15
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