Outside London, at least, there are still officers who have their priorities right – as I discovered when my home was burgled
The moment we stepped through the front door we knew that something was wrong. There was a bitter coldness in the hallway, accompanied by a faint sighing of the wind. On walking into the dining room, my wife and I found the cause of the chill. The main back window had been broken and opened, and shattered glass left across the floor. Immediately, we made a quick search of the rest of the house, which only confirmed our fears: we had been burgled. Almost every room showed signs of the break-in. Drawers and cupboards lay open, clothes and other possessions had been flung to the ground. Fortunately not much seemed to have been stolen, except for my laptop and its leather case. Strangely, the thief had ignored several obvious items like a television, DVD player and camera. Nor did he show any interest in my book collection, passing over such treasures as A History of Cork Airport and The Paddy Ashdown Diaries: Volume I.
It was now well past two o’clock in the morning, and both of us were feeling exhausted as well as troubled. We had just been driven from Nottinghamshire, where I had been speaking at a literary festival, to our terraced home on the north Kent coast near Margate. After the four-hour car journey through the night, I could barely be bothered to call the police to report the burglary. This was not just a result of my tiredness, but also because of my belief that the local constabulary would do absolutely nothing beyond giving us a crime number for insurance purposes.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in