TERRIFIED ON THE STREETS OF LONDON
It was sometime in the late ’70s, when I could still call myself a “young” lady, and I was thrilled to have one whole day in London before connecting with the BA aircraft that would be flying me home. I had returned from a twoweek tour of the continent, and couldn’t wait to hit the street — Oxford Street in particular. The January sales were on! Bargains galore! Had I not been confined to the measly allowance we South Africans were allowed at the time, I might have rushed to Bond Street instead, but those shops would have been a bit too posh for my pocket.
It was bitterly cold. Nonetheless, I sprang out of bed, eager to spend my last few remaining bucks. Foregoing the breakfast that was part of my package, I rushed out. The street hit me as I landed on my behind right in front of the hotel. Clearly I needed to slow down — there was slippery ice everywhere and the thickest, murkiest fog I had ever experienced.
It had occurred to me that I should first change my few remaining travellers’ cheques at a bank before joining the inevitable frenzy in the shops. Fortunately, having stayed at the same hotel before my European trip, I was reasonably familiar with the area, so I made my way slowly in the direction of the bank, stopping every now and again to make sure I was headed the right way. It was still quite dark, and as the mist was very thick, not even the streetlights helped much as I moved slowly from one to the other.
At last I reached the bank. Suddenly it struck me that I had not passed more than two or three people CYNTHIA HOPKINS in the street. Strange, I thought.
Maybe it’s earlier than I think.
(I later discovered that it was a public holiday and most Londoners were probably still tucked up in bed).
I huddled in the doorway of the bank, shivering and hoping they would not be too long in opening up (but of course they did not open at all). Eerie waves of fog billowed down the street, enveloping the nearest lamppost, curling around my feet and caressing my frozen cheeks as my teeth chattered.
Then I noticed a lone man coming towards me through the fog. My mind straight away conjured up the stories of Jack The Ripper, and I held my breath as he walked straight up to me. Where was his knife?
I could not have screamed had I wanted to. I did want to. No one would have heard me anyway. There was no one else there to hear me. I was petrified.
The chap looked at me and said “Excuse me” – I leapt as far away from him as I could. Too afraid to run, I stood glued to the spot.
He walked up to the wall in front of which I had been standing, did something with a card he was holding in his hand, and my jaw dropped, all fear forgotten. As I watched, a wad of money shot out of a hole in the wall. Magic!
That was this Port Elizabethan’s first encounter with an autobank.
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LDo you have a funny or quirky story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photograph of yourself for publication with the column.