It was a rainy Tuesday night. My friend and I walked down the Stoke Newington high street in North London, shielding our faces from the droplets that were coming down thick and fast. We decided to duck into a hip gastro-pub on the street corner that beckoned us in with the promise of good pub food and drinks.
The pub was bustling but not packed and still quiet enough to have a conversation inside. We were taken to our table in the corner of the room which was furnished with wooden tables and chairs, quirky decor, candles and a good vibe. We took our coats off, brushing the water off our backs and took a seat with a couple of menus.
We ordered drinks and food and were having a good time catching up and planning our next weekend trip. During the evening however, I noticed that a man had entered the restaurant and was acting strangely. He had made his way over to our corner of the room where my friend and I were sitting. He was talking on his cellphone, leaning towards the glass looking out through the window onto the dark, rainy street. He was also rustling around with his jacket a lot. My back was to this man but I noticed this was happening for quite some time when a woman made her way into the bar and sat at a table by herself in the middle of the room.
All the while this was happening, I was having dinner with my friend and was overall pretty distracted. However, I noticed that the woman kept looking over at this man standing in the corner by us and they were exchanging looks. This behaviour stood out to me and started to make me nervous at this point. I moved my phone slightly towards me and that’s when I decided I should probably check where my bag was as well. The blood quickly drained from my face when I realised it wasn’t hanging off the back of my chair where I had left it. In fact it wasn’t on any of the other chairs and it definitely wasn’t on the floor. That’s when I really started to panic.
I stood up, making a bit of a scene. My friend and I were looking under and around the table frantically. The bar staff must have noticed something was off at this point. The man was still rustling around awkwardly with his jacket and made a b-line for the door as soon as he saw me looking for my bag. Call it a woman’s instincts but I just knew this man had my bag. I chased after him in the restaurant, a lead ball in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t believe I was about to accuse this man of taking my bag, but I knew I had to be sure.
”Excuse me, do you have my bag? Did you take my bag? DID YOU TAKE MY BAG?”
The adrenalin had kicked in and my voice became increasingly louder and angrier he continued walking toward the door, ignoring me.
One of the bar staff ran to block the entrance, preventing him from leaving and I grabbed the man’s jacket to stop him. I lifted his jacket up and low and behold there was my handbag. My big bulky Doc Martens leather hand bag (even I have trouble lugging it around, not sure how this man expected to make a run with it stealthily). I snatched it away from him and he gave it up easily.
I was in shock and disbelief at what had just happened. I was shaking a lot at this point, scrambling through my bag to make sure nothing had been stolen. The man just walked straight out of the pub, not phased in the slightest. I couldn’t believe the events that had just transpired in the last few minutes. The bar staff apologised and offered me a shot of tequila for my nerves. I obliged.
It’s a weird feeling when something like this happens to you. It feels like a personal, planned out attack. All of my most valuable belongings were in that bag. My wallet, debit cards, ID, oyster card, house keys, work pass. I would have been royally screwed if I had lost it all. It was upsetting to think one human being could do something like this to another and a hard reminder than not everyone in this world is good and trustworthy.
I walked past the table of guys next to us that had sat there watching on stupidly in silence the entire time. ”Nothing to see here boys”.
Afterwards, when I told my friends and family about the ordeal they reminded me that this could have ended a lot worse. What could have happened if this man had a knife or acted out aggressively? None of that had even crossed my mind at the time. I’m a bit of a justice warrior and there was no way I was going to let this guy take off with my bag.
I’ve learnt a valuable lesson from this ordeal which is to always be on my guard and watch my bag in London, heck anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, I think I can be too trusting but the reality is you can’t trust everyone. Some people are desperate and the world is not all good.
The other moral of this story is don’t fuck with a Kiwi girl and her handbag. I will find you, I will track you down and I will get my handbag back.
The Runaway Girl 