Emergency Disservice

Jacked London

Regular readers will know that I spend a lot of my time prowling around the southern end of London’s Tottenham Court Road, on the border of Camden and Westminster.

An area that has become, in recent years, a mecca for pan handlers, phone thieves, drug addicts, and other assorted human flotsam and jetsam.

As well as the begging potential provided by the many local bus stops and other transport links, low lifes are also attracted by the prime shoplifting opportunities offered by Sainsbury’s, Primark, Pret A Manger, and Wasabi.

The homeless seem suprisingly fond of sushi. Although they appear less drawn by the literary attractions of the nearby Waterstones.

And after taking a quick look at the store’s large and enticing window display, overflowing with a myriad shouty books berating me for having the temerity to be male, white, middle aged, and probably ‘far right’, it’s easy to share their reticence to engage.

The other day I was heading out of the area, on my way to meet my daughter for lunch on Goodge Street.

It was a Sunday, and the weather was nice. So the place was jammed with even more people than usual. It was vaguely pleasant for once, even if the warm weather added a certain pungency to the ever sticky pavement, slimy sewer gratings, and grimly engorged litter bins, which inadequately serve the area.

As I walked past the bus stops I noticed a woman weaving her way between the crowds of pedestrians.

She tottered like a druggie, but without the insistence and desperate urgency of a junkie jig jiggling for her next fix.

She more drifted about the place, ethereal, like a bin bag on a breeze. Swaying this way and that, like a drunk dad, who’s stayed up far too late at his daughter’s wedding, and is now, frankly, making a bit of a tit of himself.

Oblivious to her surroundings. And out of step, both literally, and metaphorically with the hurly burly of the disinterested, indifferent world around her, she sashayed to a private rhythm. Slow dancing sad with her own life’s lost potential.

She didn’t appear very old. Maybe in her early thirties. Hardly surprising. Being homeless in London isn’t a vocation which tends to suit the elderly. Just the old before their time.

And while not spruced up for a Sunday stroll, her clothes, pastel coloured and summery, seemed clean enough. Fresh-on even. At least the day before yesterday.

That was apart from the dried bloodstain down the front of her sunflower yellow skirt.

But none of this was what caught, and then demanded, my attention.

That would be the ugly looking syringe which she was waving about with careless aplomb. As if it were a cigarette holder, in the hand of a Tiffany’s bound Audrey Hepburn.

It too looked surprisingly clean, box fresh, as if it was straight from its sterile packet.

I assumed that whatever had put her into her current, spaced out, mashed up state, had originated inside.

The syringe was topped off with a rather long, ugly needle.

I find needles scary at the best of times. But watching one weaving through a crowd of Londoners, tourists and children on a sunny Sunday afternoon was absolutely terrifying.

The woman  bobbed her way through the oblivious throng. If anyone but me noticed her I don’t know. Most people seemed too busy with their own concerns to take any heed.

Fair enough.

I was also in a rush. Like everyone else I had things to do and places to be. Busy busy busy. And so I continued north at a pace.

Then I stopped. And watched her for a moment more.

Now, I want to stress here that I am in no way a Good Samaritan. I’m not a ‘concerned citizen’. I don’t like to ‘get involved’. I don’t belong to any Neighbourhood Watch scheme, and I make a point of ignoring my local WhatsApp busy body residents group. What I’m trying to say, is that I’m not a good guy.

And yet. And yet.

Here was a zoned out woman with blood on her dress, wandering up Tottenham Court Road with a needle-tipped syringe full of who-knows-what in her hand.

Someone surely had to do something. And with a sigh I conceded reluctantly that today, that someone, was probably me.

So I stopped. And called 999.

‘Hello 999 Emergency. What service do you require?’

Good question. I wasn’t sure, but someone could get hurt here, and the woman might even need restraining. I went for police.

I was put through immediately.

‘What’s the nature of your emergency?’

Well I said. I’m walking up Tottenham Court Road and there’s an obviously distressed woman with blood on her, wandering up and down the street among the pedestrians waving around a large syringe with a needle sticking out of it. She’s clearly on drugs. I’m worried she’s going to hurt someone. Or herself. So I thought I should call the police.

The police dispatcher took in a deep breath.

And sounding like that cliché car mechanic who looks over your engine, takes an over long drag on a Woodbine, and says. ‘Oooo now that’s gonna cost ya.’

He said.

‘Well. What you need to do is, hang up, and redial 999. And ask for an ambulance.’

I was more than slightly taken aback. You want ME to do that?

‘Yes.’

But I’ve just rang you. And you’re the police.

‘Yes. You need to redial 999 and this time ask for an ambulance.’

But she’s got a needle.

‘There’s nothing we can do. You need to redial. And ask for an ambulance.’

But she might hurt someone.

‘Is she hurting someone now?’

Well, not right this second, but she could.

‘You need to redial and ask for an ambulance.’

To be honest I haven’t been met with this much disinterest, indifference, and general lack of enthusiasm since Valentine’s Day 2019.

As instructed, I redialled 999, and this time, asked for an ambulance.

I explained that I had just called the police because there was a distressed woman walking up Tottenham Court Road with blood on her and a needle. But I said, they told me to call you.

‘Whereabouts on Tottenham Court Road?’

Well I said, she’s wandering up and down between Primark and The Odeon. (If you don’t know the area. That’s about a 200 yard strip, at most).

‘Where exactly is she now?’

By this point I had walked almost to Goodge St, so I said, well I can’t see her right now, but she’s been wandering up and down, just where I’d said.

‘I’m sorry but if you can’t see her there’s nothing I can do.’

I said, yes, but that’s what the police said.

‘I’m sorry. But unless you can see her I can’t send an ambulance.’

So what? You’re just going to leave a drugged up woman with a syringe wandering around among a load of tourists and pedestrians then?

‘Sorry. There’s nothing I can do’.

I didn’t get angry. Because I knew that if I did, they would in all probability end up sending a police car. For me.

So I did what everyone else was doing. And decided it was no longer my problem. As I say, I’m no Samaritan.  I went to meet my daughter.

We had, a lovely lunch.

On my way home I wondered if to get an actual response from the authorities, I should have simply told the police that I had seen that poor woman Tweeting something beastly about immigrants, or perhaps claimed I had watched her ‘misgendering’ a transsexual, or silently praying near an abortion clinic.

Obviously I thought to myself, that this was just a silly idea, a joke. Things weren’t actually that bad. I was simply exaggerating.

But not by much.

Really. Not by very much.

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LSO