Self-loathing reached a new high (or should that be low?) this week when I heard myself pleading with the impenetrable insurance claims handler: “But I need a phone.” It is true, though. I didn’t mean it in an existential, I-feel-crushingly-anxious-if-I-don’t-look-at-my-phone-every-three-minutes way, but on a practical level, life has become a whole lot harder since last Saturday.
It started off well enough. It was due to be a hot day, so I was up early and on my bike, heading for Hackney. A coffee and a pastry in London Fields for breakfast, and then on to one of my favourite fabric shops. With three and a half metres of hammered silk-satin (beautifully fluid in a mustard gold, to be sewn into a gown for a black-tie wedding next month) safely stowed in my bag, I affixed my phone to the bracket on my handlebars and paused at a junction to input my next destination on Citymapper. It was over before I had fully grasped what was happening: something out of the corner of my eye over my right shoulder, and then two balaclavaed men – or, perhaps, boys – were cycling away, my phone in one of their hands.
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