The sobering reality of burglary

2014-06-02 15:19

It’s Sunday morning. About 5am. Saturday night’s shindig with my transgender mate Mandy had been bangin. Mandy’s cool.

A top notch punter with serious chaos tendencies. I have a reputation for turning it on, but Mandy’s the real deal. The party’s been nearly as out of hand as she is – genuine run at the wall stuff, with all the necessary food groups represented. So by the time I finally manage to get my front door open I’m well and ready for my bed.

I get inside and I feel something’s wrong. It’s not that my younger offspring, Small James, is lying passed out in bed with the lights on. He still does that every day. I turn his light off and head down the passage to the living room. My laptop’s not where I left it, but given my state and my general lack of a short term memory I’m not that fazed.

I stumble into my bedroom. Two of the windows are wide open, off the latch. It’s weird, but my brain’s not up to thinking it through. I fall onto my bed and the main switch goes off.

After what seems like a second, Small James is shaking me awake. Small James is mumbling something about laptops and cameras. I resist the urge to kick him to death. Mainly because I’m too broken to get out of bed. I roll over and try to ignore him. The little bastard won’t stop. I claw my way into consciousness and the penny drops. We’ve been burgled. Hit down. Robbed. Kekered. Pink Panthered. Call it what the hell you want but my laptop’s gone, along with Small James’ brand new Nikes, his camera, his laptop and his iPod. They also clouted junior’s wallet, which they swiped next to the laptop, which he had passed out watching.

I’m not sure what to think. I’ve been burgled twice before, both times in a house I shared with mates after I got divorced. Both times the house was hit without anybody getting hurt – apart from the ganja plants the cops made me pull out when they came to investigate the break-in.

I finally get out of bed. The burglar’s came through the electric fence, into the parking lot and up the drainpipe and in my first floor bedroom window. There’s hand and footprints all over the window sill and drainpipe. He’s used James’ backpack to carry off his loot and gone back down the drainpipe, like a thief in the night and all that.

I’m numb. Part of it is the residue of last night. Part is a sense of relief that Small James didn’t get hurt. Part of it the sense of awe at the quality of his or her burglary skills. It’s as if we’ve been jacked by a Ninja.

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