The Good Samaritan, part 2

There I am, standing in the queue for a taxi outside Brussels’ south station. It’s late on Sunday night. Sat on a bench thirty feet away is girl speaking on her mobile phone. A tall, trenchcoated man ambles up slowly behind her, peers into her handbag, which is placed on the seat next to her, puts his hand in and steals her wallet.

Like a slightly arthritic Superman (pre-disability), I leap to her defence. Well, meander really. I walk towards him, then walk slightly towards the door, wary of the fact he might have a knife. Or a Rottweiler. Or a large gun.

He stops. So do I. He takes a few steps sideways. So do I. He takes a few steps towards me. I almost run away. I get on my phone. Not really on it, like a horse, but on it like put it to my ear. He makes eye contact. Then starts to walk back the way he comes. I follow him (with my gaze) and he appears to put something back in the handbag.

A better Samaritan sees this and misconstrues it as the original theft, shouts “stop thief!” and gives chase.

I walk towards the girl on the phone, who’s still oblivious, and ask her if anything’s missing. She shoots me daggers and tells me to fuck off.

Who’d have thought? Me, a superhero.