My iPhone was stolen tonight.

I had just alighted from the bus and paused on the sidewalk to finish reading an email, when around the building (on the sidewalk, far from the street) zoomed two guys on a motorcycle who snatched the phone from my hand and sped off.

Bystanders expressed a moment’s sympathy and recommended that I call the police.  A little girl even offered to let me use her phone.  I felt embarrassed to say that I don’t know how to call the police in London.  So I just said no thanks.

I also realized I had just fallen victim to something that posters and public announcements and cab drivers had warned me about in this neighborhood:  guys on motorbikes stealing phones out of people’s hands.

There’s never a good time of day to have one’s phone stolen, but after a 14-hour day at work, when one is tired and starving and feeling overwhelmed by the amount of work still to be done, one tends to feel very sorry for oneself and fall a part a little bit.

Fortunately, I recognized what was happening and managed to hold myself together long enough to get home without making a scene and hastily chomp down a piece of toast to get the blood sugar back up enough to appreciate that it wasn’t actually the end of the world.

Then I sat down and told Apple to erase my phone (natch the thieves had already taken it offline, so not sure whether it’ll work) and attempted to notify my cell provider, who helpfully instructed me to just call them or write a letter — fortunately by then the toast had done it’s job well enough to avoid a meltdown.

So I’m sans phone until I can get in to a shop to get a new phone and SIM card.  Then we’ll see how many of my contacts and other information I had managed to back up . . . . I may need you to send me your details.

Sigh.