I am standing in a quiet London street, just off a busy market, and nobody is coming to help me. The personal attack alarm I have set off screeches away into a void of nothingness.
Eventually, a man walks past on his mobile phone, glances in my direction and looks annoyed. A pigeon looks slightly alarmed.
I could be dead by now, I think. Or maimed. Damn you fellow citizens. "Why didn't you come and see if I was OK?" I ask a stallholder on the market.
"We get a lot of kids round here," Roman Sarlowaray says. "I thought it was one of them messing around."