I asked if they were OK and they nodded.
I worry about friends and also strangers. A child weeping for a lost balloon can floor me.
I handed the phone straight over. I know what some of you will be thinking already: “Where’s your suspicion?” That came later.
They rang a number twice and then handed the phone back to me.
The moment this incident was over, my mind went into: “You stupid bloody idiot, you’ve obviously been scammed.”
What can be stolen from these devices that now hold so much of our identity? There’s probably enough in there to clone me, though I am not sure anyone would want double me.
I said goodbye to Susan and then stood looking through possible scam numbers. I found a pub to curse myself in and looked at how many doors to my world I could lock with new keys.
Seeing my reflection in the window, I cursed my stupid face.
I texted my wife who, quite normally, clearly thought I was a naive fool for allowing this incident to happen. Isn’t that what most people would think?
I cursed a world where so many people are scammers.
I cursed a world where so many of us believe so many people must be scammers.
I want to trust.
I want to believe that those who ask for help really do need help.
We grow up in a world where suspicion trumps trust.
I don’t want to live in a world of deep suspicion.
It might be that that person really did call their boyfriend.
I know the biggest cons are at the top and they will get away with it, perhaps facing a pointless punishment after their death.
For the far lower scammers, those who don’t get into the House of Lords or hedge fund adviser hierarchy, and have to hang around the tube stations waiting for the easily duped, why should I curse them? They are watching a society frequently led by the truly crooked, greedy and shameless.
It sickens me to see Boris Johnson with his splendid book deal or Thérèse Coffey being made a dame; if I am scammed from the top, why shouldn’t people scam me at the bottom too?
Can I balance the rebuke of myself with an acknowledgement that my naivety can sometimes be my strange strength?
Twelve hours later, and nothing untoward as yet.
Maybe it was all above board – a frustrated human waiting for their partner. My protective armour usually comes on too late, after it can be of any use but in time for a chaos of calamity thinking and a night of troubled dreams,
How sweet to be an idiot, as that beautiful and humane performer Neil Innes sang.
Robin Ince is a comedian, broadcaster and poet. His book Bibliomaniac (Atlantic Books, £10.99) is out now. You can buy it from the Big Issue shop on Bookshop.org, which helps to support the Big Issue and independent bookshops.
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