Robbed, punched - but no one came to my aid

THE last time I was standing here, on the corner of Wigginton Road and Clarence Street in York, I was waiting for the police.

Five minutes before, I had been punched in the face by a complete stranger, who had then snatched my bag and ran off.

Only adrenalin gave me the energy to override the fear, disorientation and panic that shook my legs so I could get out on to a major junction and wait for the police.

I was so distressed I could barely stand up, my face red from the tears and the assault. I was terrified my attackers would return for me, for my phone.

But not one single person stopped to ask me if I was okay.

Several people walked by - including a group of four led by a man in his late 20s on a bike. He steered round me on the pavement.

One man in nearby Union Terrace paused several times to look at my pathetic figure. But he didn't say a word.

I wasn't looking for heroics. I wasn't expecting Superman to appear at my elbow and whisk me away to safety.

I just wanted someone to ask if I was okay. To stand with me for those short yet agonisingly long ten minutes until the police arrived.

It wasn't as if I was invisible. Several people stared, some aghast, all choosing to stay in the safe confines of their cars, urging the red lights that kept their eyes glued to the scene to let them escape back into their comfortable lives.

Maybe they thought I was some kind of madwoman trying to lure them into an elaborate trap.

But I was well-dressed, in smart black trousers, shoes, a red top and a dark grey denim jacket.

Perhaps they had become immune to this kind of thing. Surely not here, not in York.

A brief glance at the Evening Press archives show that North Yorkshire was ranked the fourth safest county in the entire country by University of York statistics experts last year.

As an Evening Press sports writer, I had been at the York City match against Hereford United, and had a gut feeling something bad was about to happen as I stuffed my notebook back into my bag to leave.

So much so, I decided to carry my keys in my hand all the way home, rather than in the last few yards as normal, and I made a conscious decision to phone my dad after I had crossed the bridge.

Eight minutes later, my ears were ringing with hysterical high-pitched screams. They were my own.

I was chatting to my dad about the Olympics when I clocked two young people walking towards me. They were in their mid-to-late teens, their faces obscured by hooded tops, one beige, one pale blue.

I was in the wide part of Bridge Lane by this point, about 25 yards from Wigginton Road, so ignored them and carried on.

The next thing I saw was the shorter one lurching towards me. An arm was thrown into my face, snapping my head back and swinging me round by the force of the blow. They then ripped my bag away and sprinted off through a gap in the wall into the grounds of the hospital.

My dad - and little sister - heard three high-pitched screams before I cut the phone off.

Three weeks on, the dull blue tinge to the bridge of my nose has all but faded, and I've started to rebuild the life that had been contained in my bag.

I've stopped asking myself: 'Why me?' I was a young woman alone in a deserted street. I was wearing shoes that made it difficult to run, and I was on the phone (despite knowing the risks). I was the perfect victim.

But it was nothing personal. That is probably the only reason I have been able to carry on with some kind of normality. A kind without short cuts and a new, edgy wariness of teenagers with hooded tops.

My family, workmates and the police have all given me the strength to put things behind me and rediscover my smile.

I'm glad I didn't have to rely on the kindness of strangers.

We live in a busy world full of fear and isolation. But it doesn't take much to keep an eye on the people around us - the good, the bad and those who could do with a kind word in a moment of trouble.

Updated: 09:41 Friday, September 10, 2004