A break in and a burglary make me miss my fearless youth
Recently I have had two nasty surprises. The first was finding my flat’s back windows shattered (“Was it a child’s football? Or a burglar’s fist?” I fretted). And the second was finding my car broken into. These events aren’t unusual, but because they came in quick succession, I couldn’t brush them off. I felt reduced, vulnerable and paranoid.
This, I know, is not my natural state. In my early 20s I was captivated by the idea of the flâneur – a French word for a man who roams society observing, often at night. Tellingly, flâneuse, the female equivalent, has never gained much traction.
But still I tried, soaking up the city at its most honest and depraved, blithely unaware of the grim reaper surely waiting a few bar stools over. When I think back to the precarious situations I found myself in, I shudder: there were too many close calls for comfort. But also much joy, and many kindnesses: the woman who gave me some flip-flops when my heel broke, or the man who gave me his jumper at the train station.
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How was I so fearless? Stupidity, probably. Like the time I demanded a 6ft pickpocket give my purse back, holding out my hand like a parent saying, “Spit it out” to a toddler who has eaten a marble. Such things seem unimaginable now. (He gave it back.)
I worry for others, too. Perhaps too much. Recently, I found a young woman, drunk, in a pub toilet. It was only right to tell staff and bring her water. It was maybe too much to demand ID from the man who collected her – whom she called Dad – and to test him on information I had gleaned from nothing more than her drunken ramblings.
Perhaps as we age we take fewer risks, realising we have so much to lose. But I feel I have lost something by retreating. So while my car is out of action, I’m taking the opportunity to walk, and to ride the night bus. It’s time to flex my flâneuse muscles again.
