Thursday, February 26, 2009


We came home at around 3, and I futzed around getting ready to go to the beach. Aside from my front door being unlocked (which might have been a glaring Sign for most people, but which served only to remind me that I am Old and also Senile), I didn't notice anything weird. I mean, I EXPECT mess at home - or, as I like to refer to it, "agility training" - because duh, I live with a three year old. The only time it's NOT messy around here is when he's either asleep or not here. (actually, it's CLUTTER, not mess, but in a small space like this, even organised clutter [which ours is not] disguises itself as mess).


Point being, rockstars could party here while we're out and I'd have no clue.

And besides, the thieving scuzzball(s) had come in through the bedroom window, and as I'd begun sorting through some of Daniel's old clothes that morning, I didn't notice their contribution to the piles of crap until after I'd walked right INTO the room.



I saw the open boxes of Daniel's baby photos sitting next to the boxes of baby clothes.

The facts were like "DO YOU GET IT NOW??" and I was all "Get what?".

Somewhere in there I figured that Daniel is way too short to take those boxes from the top of the wardrobe, and I had absolutely ZERO memories of taking them down myself so....*blank space STILL went here*

The other shit hanging out the wardrobe made no sense either.

and the facts waited

and waited

and then.



All the other things ADDITIONAL to photo boxes and regurgitating wardrobes suddenly made sense too. Drawers not quite shut, papers a little froofed, nail files and pedeggs left on the floor. They were SIGNS, people, that I MISSED for a full THIRTY MINUTES.

Then I did a fancy little Michael Jackson swivel and headed back to my desk and eyeballed the shelving and sure enough, cleaned out. I don't usually keep that amount of spondoolies sitting around at home, but I also don't usually have a BIRTHDAY the day before some fuckhead rips me off.

and thanks a bunch for THAT, Universe.

Then I had to LOOK UP the damn police phone number because we've got this dumb rule here that you DON'T call 000 unless it's an emergency. So, if you're being STABBED, then call 000. If you'd like the cops to show up eventually, you call whatever the fuck the number is because I've already forgotten it again.

The police eventually (like, TWO and a HALF hours later) came and went, the Crime scene guy came a half hour after them, and he dusted and left, and it was 7pm by the time they all left.

And for a short trip inside my home, whoever it was actually scored rather well.

Then we went for a walk, Daniel fell asleep, and I jumped every. single. time I heard a noise.

Then we went to the video shop across the road and I gasbagged to the guy behind the counter for AGES (also ate two [TWO] Magnum Egos) because I was okay (ish), but given the option of being skeeved about going home and not being skeeved about not going home, I went with Option The Second.

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