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The day we became another statistic…

You never think it will happen to you.

But then, horribly, it does.

The experience robs you of more than just mere material goods.

The day had all the makings of a normal Friday. I’d dropped Sons 2 & 3 at school, come home and started the usual; laundry, dishes, take meat out for dinner that night. Our crappy summer wore on. More torrential rain fell during the day as I sat in my office working through debtors and creditors. I reconciled and balanced bank statements as the rain overflowed the gutters, and made a mental note to tell The Provider we needed to check them once it stopped.

I had lunch. A sandwich, with roast beef, relish and cheese. Followed by coffee and a Tim Tam. All boringly normal, right? The day flew past until I left to pick up Son #3 from school. I shooed Spence outside into the backyard, even though Son #1 was at home. He’d worked nights and was asleep upstairs after arriving home at 6am. 

The first clue I had that something wasn’t quite right was when my youngest didn’t stop at the front door waiting for me – he walked straight in. And I knew I’d locked it when I left. When I saw one of the flyscreens on the ground outside, my stomach lurched. A second later I saw the smashed window. Oh, shit. SHIT.

You know that feeling you get when your eyes see something yet your brain struggles to connect the dots? *sigh* It was like that. You’re looking around at everything all at once, trying to see if your house looks as it should. And all while the blood pounds loudly in your ears and you walk around distracted, wondering what the hell to do first.

They only took the PS3 so we were very lucky. It could easily have been so much worse. It didn’t look like they were in the house very long – we reckon they heard #3 son’s alarm go off upstairs and were forced to leave in a hurry, grabbing the Playstation on the way out the door. My laptop was sitting on the bench in full view and yet, it wasn’t taken. You have NO idea how relieved I am about that.

Spencer, The Guard Dog Who Wasn’t, remained a little quiet that night. Poor baby. The Blokes Wot Live Here were all giving him a bit of stick, saying things like “You’ve just failed Guard Dog Class, mate!” and “Woof! Woof! Remember how to do that?” All he could do was look up at them mournfully from underneath furrowed brows and look so, so sorry. We’re very relieved he wasn’t hurt though, even if his canine pride took a bit of a beating.

Many phone calls later, the paperwork has begun. Police, insurance and glass repair man have all been contacted and the process to document this little blip on the crime activity register has started. Not surprisingly, I didn’t sleep particularly well last night. Kept ‘hearing’ things downstairs. *sigh* I’m sure this slightly violated feeling I have will pass but it’s a hard one to shake; knowing that some stranger has been in your house is extremely unsettling.

I hope the thieving bastards are caught, one way or another. If Karma has its way, they will be.

Have you ever been robbed? What happened? And were the perpetrators ever caught?

2 responses to “The day we became another statistic…”

  1. Sarah M Avatar
    Sarah M

    That's horrible. Stuff can be replaced but the violation remains. How does son #1 feel about being there during this? It would be an awful feeling for you are his mother I bet.

    I hope they catch this creep.

  2. What Sarah Did Next Avatar

    Hey Sarah!

    Son #1 wishes he HAD come downstairs while they were there (usual male bravado, heh) but I am quite glad he didn't. You just never know what might have happened.

    Forensics have been and a few partial prints were taken so now we just have to wait and see. Apparently there were two 'creeps' from what they could see. *shudders* Karma will get them, if nothing else does. *nods*

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About Me

Hi, I’m Sarah!

Former wild-child of the 80’s, classic rock fan and loyal friend to a particularly awesome group of people. Forever planning to write more. Fervently wishes she lived at the beach. Loves the mighty All Blacks. Rather partial to a cheeky glass of red.

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