I’m just home from catching up with two lovely friends of mine. On a school night <insert gasp>.
Himself even kindly lent me his car to chauffeur the ladies. It is cleaner inside than mine. It isn’t full of random items. Advent calendars, two jackets, 16 bags for life, a ginormous crate of glass for the recycling, some dog towels and a tray of eggs.
Conceding he might have a point, I happily hop into the ‘executive motor’ enjoying less clutter and the utter joy of heated front seats.
Pitifully, as with most of my outings, the evening wound up in the supermarket. This time fuelling the Mister’s car, he’d conveniently forgotten whilst it was clean, it was also empty.
A young lass alone
Half a tank heavier and 40 quid lighter, I find myself aghast to see a young lass walking along alone. Towards the store. What time of night is this for her to be out?
Why is she navigating through this perilous, Crimewatchesque situation solo?
I swiftly take note of her attire. Anything distinct? What direction is she heading? (through the well-lit, security camera covered car park).
A swift glance at the clock confirms the time, so I can tell the police exactly what time it was when I saw her. For when I call in with this vital information. Dutiful citizen that I am. Am clearly crime solving genius.
So, it’s … 9pm. Nine o’clock. Not 3am. Not midnight. Not even close.
When I was a kid getting sent to bed at 9pm, I couldn’t wait to be a grown up. To stay up late. Till whatever time I chose. Now I’m finally all grown up, that time is apparently 9pm.
Of course she’s fine, it’s me…
While I worry about this young lady, out in the December chill air, wandering aimlessly, inviting danger with seemingly no concern for personal safety, she is simply passing through a safe, populated, space heading to grab her weekly shop. Like a normal human being.
I’m actually rather embarrassed by my ludicrous imagination. Crimewatch hasn’t even aired since 2017. This lass probably has no idea who Nick Ross is or how his last line of the night, those three little words, could strike the fear of god into the most courageous of hearts: ‘Don’t have nightmares’.
Don’t. Have. Nightmares?!?!? Aye, okay then Nick. Easy peasy! Except I recognised every single person on the photofits.
Number one? The bloke that delivers to the caff. Two? He drove the bus this morning. I’m absolutely certain three is shelf stacker from Tesco. I’ll stop in and politely ask him to pop on a hoodie and pull it over his head so I can double check.
Pass me the phone, I need to call Nick directly with this vital crime-busting information. It’s hardly surprising I didn’t pursue a career in the police.
I calm myself, safe in the knowledge supermarket lass knows exactly what she is doing and is perfectly safe. With her mobile phone in hand, all her social media apps tracking where she’s going, she’s safer than I ever was at that age. Unless she has a stalker.
What will they tell their kids?
I wonder about our kids. What will they tell theirs? Tales of navigating the world without a mobile phone, until they were 12, or how their data sometimes ran out, leaving them abandoned and defenceless?
I’ll recount the early ’90s. The ‘start walking and I’ll meet you half way’ dates. Hopping on a bus to the next village and walking half an hour to your lad’s house, his house number memorised to call from the phone box.
I wonder what the part of my brain that used to store telephone numbers is doing nowadays? I can still remember some of them, as well as the route. Part of which was down a cycle path. A cycle path?!
We also used to buy carry-outs, using a fake ID, to drink on the golf course with the sixth years. And now? Now apparently I find just going to the supermarket stressful.
What was my mother thinking? Well, she didn’t know of course, because in 1992 she couldn’t call me on a mobile or track me on a ‘snapmap’.
I can only presume as long as I didn’t end up dead, hurt or in prison, she considered it a win.
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