On that eventful day a few weeks ago, dawn was still struggling to write its signature in the sky. The birds, awaiting the first rays of daylight that strike their nests and cause them to shake their tail feathers, were still muted in their twittering. In other words it was that time when darkness and daylight were balanced on a threshold, one coming this way the other going that.

A lone figure sat at the bus stop. The 5.38am bus was due in eight minutes. Another routine day, getting under way. The early-morning bus rarely had a passenger in it. The bus driver knew this would be his first pick-up. A rather striking woman (the passenger, not the driver) with a shock of curly henna-infused hair and a smiling visage got the driver’s day off to a cheerful start.

But the bus was still eight minutes away and the traveller, meanwhile, sat waiting bag beside on the bench, iPhone in hand checking mail on Facebook. Early morning, before the rush of the office day took over, was a good time to respond briefly to Facebook mail. It had become a habit. The thing about habit is it is observable. People take note.

When the sound of feet approaching the bus stop is heard, the passenger, let’s call her Mrs C., doesn’t think much of it. Another fellow traveller is the only thought she entertains, fingers plying the keypad. When the footsteps halt by her side she isn’t worried in the least.

In Sydney, everybody minds their own business. People rarely even glance in the direction of others. They are usually all face forward, eyes glazed, minds connected with the music in their ears. When the feet scrape hesitantly, indecisively on the gravel a sixth sense starts to engage.

Muted whispering

Mrs C. momentarily halts her Facebook messaging, but continues to look like she is busy. A cold sweat begins to form on her forehead as a series of unpleasant scenarios begin to play out in her head. In her peripheral vision she makes out a shape. Turning her head fractionally, she finds it is not a shape. Not one shape, that is, but more. Four. And the sound she thought was breathing was muted whispering. She makes to take her handbag from the bench at the same instant that one hand reaches out for it and grabs. A push and tug ensues. The lady does what comes instinctively which is scream. She does this well but also, heeding a warning at the back of her mind, releases the bag. The four young men, hoods wearing hoods, run off.

For Mrs C. it sets in motion a completely different routine to an otherwise normal day. She is so traumatised that she has to take stress leave. She has to report the matter to the police (who take her jacket for DNA testing). She has to quickly get her credit cards blocked, but even her swiftness is not quick enough — $2,000 (Dh6,463) is spent almost instantly. She has to apply for a new ID. At the end of the day, she is simply glad she got away without any major threat to her life.

In a typical case of bolting the stable door after the horse has run away, she starts wearing a pouch around her neck carrying all her valuables/documents in it. It takes 48 hours, but thanks to the alacrity of the police, the credit card numbers have been traced to their last point of purchase and CCTV footage has been viewed. The cops think they may have something and are following it up. They keep Mrs C. informed of all this throughout. The banks come forward and reimburse the stolen money.

It is a decent end to a terrible, true incident, to someone very close to me. It is, however, a warning that there is no such thing as a routine day. There’s always an incident lurking in the wings.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.