Wednesday, 20 November 2013
It's winter. The streets are dark, cold, wet and deserted. Walking at 9pm from my dad's to Mr's. Streets I've known forever. Running footsteps coming up the railway bridge behind me. I'm aware. They pass me and carry on. I'm passing under enormous plain trees around which has recently been repaved so the path is flatter and not cracked by their roots. I turn onto Oakfield road. Passing over the railway I hear running steps again and then someone grabs my handbag handles and jerks, give me the bag he growls. Instant reaction is to hold firmly and I shout no, loudly. Louder than I realise I can. Top of my lungs. No! Leave me alone! Get away from me! Fuck off! As we struggle with the bag between us. I shove him in the chest. He turns and runs off leaving me. I have my bag. I check whether he managed to get anything out of it (not sure why I think he could have). And then I turn and run the rest of my way, looking back sometimes. I'm shaking. But not really as afraid as I thought might have been. When I get in they can't believe what happened and question me about where, what and who did this. I remember he was wearing pale jeans and a tan balaclava. I think he was a teenager. He was slight. Not tall (similar to me). And they laughed, incredulous. And then said they were proud of me fighting him off. I think they may have thought I would have wimped out and given in. I thought I might as well but instinct does surprising things sometimes.
Posted by Harriet (the fshlady) at 1:33 p.m.