Well, this is interesting.
Yesterday evening I had just finished writing a blog entry on this week’s subject, SF subgenres that end in “-punk,” and was all set to post it here first thing in the morning…but in the meantime my wife and I had a dinner date with friends.
When we got home, our house had been broken into.
We must have interrupted the burglar, because very little was taken – just some cheap jewelry of mainly sentimental value, my wife’s reading glasses (no doubt grabbed accidentally because they were on the box with the jewelry)…and my laptop computer. The computer which held in its hard drive my just-finished Night Bazaar entry – damn.
Now I’m driving myself crazy trying to remember what exactly I wrote in that essay, and more importantly if there was anything else stored on that computer that wasn’t safely backed up in some other location. This is going to eat at me.
It’s after midnight, and I’m trying to be calm. Someone has been in my house. They broke a locked window and smashed a wooden shutter, which must have taken some determination, and they went through every room looking for loot. Fortunately, there wasn’t much to be found amid all our clutter. It could have been worse – they didn’t trash the place; maybe they just didn’t have time.
We arrived home to find the house wide open, the night breeze wafting in through the busted window and yawning back door, the cat a bit traumatized and very grateful to see us. Too bad he couldn’t describe the thief. Tomorrow we have to call the insurance company and also look into some means of making the house more secure, or we’ll never again feel safe leaving it. Right now it’s hard to imagine.
The questions arise: Was it a past acquaintance? A neighbor? Who else would know our comings and goings better than someone who lives right next door? Or was it a friend of a friend, someone with inside knowledge of our plans? Our phone answering machine registered a hang-up shortly after we went out – could it have been someone checking to see if we were home? When the police investigator comes in the morning, I’ll ask if he can trace that call.
Phew…I’m getting tired. The adrenaline is wearing off; I can barely see straight. Guess this will have to do for my blog post this week. Shame about losing the other – it was a good essay, and I worked hard on it. God knows what else I lost. Fuckit, I’m going to bed now.
–W.G. MarshallRead More...