Today, I had a
run-in with The Fuzz.
It’s not every
day you interact with filth; in fact, I’ve seldom smelt bacon round my parts
(which is not a euphemism). I can count the times the scum have knocked on my door twice, which is representative of the amount of occasions they’ve visited and
not my counting ability. Thankfully, the Old Bill rarely darken my doorstep, as
narks have more important things to do with their day.
(I’ll abandon the
cop slang now, as these vernacular references to The Man are getting tedious.)
The police - ‘the law’ and not the rock group, hence the lack of
capitalisation - came by on my invitation. When I left home this morning, I
noticed the front window of the flat opposite had been smashed. I didn’t have
time to explore, as (1) I was on my way to a chiropractor appointment, and (2)
I’m not adept at wrestling burglars, but I didn’t want it on my conscience if
something untoward had taken place - so I phoned the boys and girls in blue on my way, to report it.
By the time a policeman
came by, I was back from having my bones clicked into place and meeting
my mum for coffee (unrelated). He thanked me for calling, but from
what he could gather it wasn’t a break-in. This didn’t stop me climbing through the jagged hole in the glass when he'd gone, to root around in my neighbour’s flat and help myself to his best belongings. I couldn’t
turn down the opportunity. If anyone asks, you ain’t seen me, right?