Oh Yeah

We got burgled.

This house is never empty. Usually both myself and Dave The Lodger are here. If I’m out, he’s at home. Vice versa. That actually pisses me off at times as it seems that I’m the only one who ever leaves the house and a lot of the time I leave the house purely to get away from the constant presence of Dave The Lodger, and that’s not the kind of feeling a man should have about his own home, but there it is.

Whatever: this one Sunday I had a great-niece’s birthday party to go to because I am a Great Uncle, and Dave was off out to see his mate who lives somewhere a bit north of here. So the house was empty. Dave left around half one. I left around half three. Doors and windows locked. Cat asleep on the upstairs landing.

I came home around eight. Noticed a light on upstairs, thought ‘Dave’s home, that’s his bedroom light’. Had a slight doubt in that the light was obviously coming from his open bedroom door, which is usually a closed bedroom door. But the general feel was that Dave was home.

I put my key in the lock and felt it slide round in the double-lock way rather than the slight resistance of the tumblers, and wondered how he’d managed to lock himself in. Walked through the door, thought it felt colder than it should; called up to say hello, no response: bingo. Through the living room, see the back door wide open. Oh fuck.

My first thought was “where’s the cat?”  Second thought: “where’s my laptop?” Dashed upstairs to where the laptop is kept when not being used, saw it still sitting in its place. On the way, took in fact that Dave’s bedroom door was open, the light was on, and things were strewn all over the place.

In my room, a couple of draws had been opened, a box that had been on top of the wardrobe was now on the carpet as were a couple of mugs that had been on a low shelf and full of loose change. That was all, as far as I could see, the lightbulb having chosen just that moment to go ping.

Called Dave, got him to cut short his afternoon out so he could see what was missing from his room. Called the police. Dave got there first, had a look around, couldn’t see anything missing. I sized up the damage to the back door: the lock had been crowbarred and the frame around it had been smashed, the strike plate lay bent on the floor. Just then the police arrived two officers, neither of them over thirteen years old -  did the police thing, gave a reference number and left.

So what had been taken? Sod all. My father’s pocket watch, which grieves me more than I can say. And a small black plastic briefcase with a Batman symbol on the side, which contained some of Dave’s old music demos from when he played bass in a few bands. Demos which were on old-fashioned tape cassettes.

Not touched: four laptops, some external hard drives, a bunch of cash, some jewellery.

Which makes me question the sanity of burglars round our way. They’re obviously kids or junkies looking for something to turn into cash on the quick, but a bunch of cassettes? That’s going to make it worthwhile, isn’t it?

I got the door fixed and a new lock fitted, at a cost low enough to make it not worth claiming on the insurance without it bumping up the premium so far that the whole thing costs more in the long run that the value of the items taken.

And, of course, the revenge plan has been put in place. My former brother-in-law, father of my sister’s children, was a bit of a bad lad in his younger days. Reformed now, but he’s done plenty of time and he’s still both pretty handy and in touch with some of his old spars. Word went round among his community within two hours of the break-in that anybody with even a sniff of a suspicion about them would regret their actions.

Not that they didn’t do the same thing to a house not a hundred yards away, a few days later.

And finally, this very morning, I got out of the bath and decided to trim my finger and toenails. Reached for the spot where there usually sits a small black leather-cased manicure set that I’ve had for about ten years. Gone.

So; a gang of idiots with a taste for bad 1980s poodle rock and immaculate fingernails. That’s our perps.

As Shaw Taylor used to say about oranges: keep ‘em peeled.