Behind Blue Eyes

You will remember that I lost my favourite cheap Thai watch in Battambang. Rewind a few years to when I had serious spending money courtesy of the Student Debt Company.

My twentieth year was probably my richest in perceived wealth terms. Not only had I a load of “free” money (i.e. that wouldn’t need to be paid back until I had one of those frightful-sounding graduate job thingies) from the state to help me drink my way through my degree, I had a summer job accumulating relatively colossal amounts selling tickets at a world-famous sports club. The work attracted a pitiful hourly rate, but I was paying no income tax, living at home rent-free and was working silly (now very illegal) hours.

A while back I had invested in a Swatch Skin watch. Along with my favourite uber-fashionable designer jacket it was the pride and joy of my material life.

One of my work colleagues was a bit older and he shared a house in a dubious area with some mates. He had a house party to which I was flattered to be invited. The house was in an area being regenerated by the shiny new Jubilee Line extension. I arrived at the party at a reasonable hour. I had never been to this part of town and was slightly surprised to be confronted – as I walked down from the tube – with a situation which would require a split-second decision. As I turned the corner I saw a group of youths bearing baseball bats. They seemed very interested in a particular car – one of the few parked in that street. They had seen me, and seen that I had seen them. I had to decide whether to turn around and risk being followed (or worse), or pretend that I was not remotely interested in them. I was in a position where it didn’t look weak to cross the road, so I did so nonchalantly and sauntered past them with the relaxed air of someone who has not a care in the world. They left me alone.

I stayed at the party far longer than was perhaps healthy. I had worked out in advance what buses I needed to take me to the other side of London where I resided at the time. As I stumbled along Jamaica Road towards the necessary bus stop, the necessary bus sailed past me at top speed before I had a chance to raise my arm and slur “Schtopp!” at it.

This was in the days when many night bus routes had only one service an hour. “Aha!” I thought, “I shall walk from here along the route and aim to catch the next bus or hope to chance upon an alternative route”. So I wandered up to Tower Bridge, across it, turned left, kept walking. I walked through that vehicles-only underpass; I searched in vain for another bus stop. Eventually I managed to flag a taxi down but only then realised that I was cashless. Like Forrest Gump I just kept going.

By the time I approached Parliament Square I was exhausted. I knew it wasn’t that far now (a few more miles) to my destination but I needed a bit of a breather. My tired and emotional body needed to catch up with the night’s exertions.

I selected a nice bench and lay down for a few moments’ shut-eye. It was the most comfortable bench in the world. Alas I was not able to regain my strength because the bench belonged to someone else. I was moved along by a tramp. Oh the irony. I staggered to the next bench and sat down. I rested for a few minutes, mentally preparing myself for the next stage. If only I could find a cash-point I could splash out on a cab home. I knew there must be one on Victoria Street so I wrenched myself vertical and set out with renewed vigour.

It was at that point I realised that I no longer had my watch.