you can stop looking now. Patti Newton’s handbag has been found.
i’ve got to tell you, it’s such a relief. never mind cyclone-ravaged Burma, forget the Sichuan earthquake, c-grade celebrity Patti Newton’s snatched handbag has been keeping me awake at night.
you know, unlike most people (i have taken the liberty of assuming on this, it's a talent of mine), i am not annoyed by the fact Patti's plight made national headlines. i work in the media. i spend hours defending my profession against people who don't understand that what's deemed newsworthy is an indication of society, not the industry.
but i am reminded of a time when i was robbed. two times in fact. and how useless the police were in response. that annoys me.
scenario one. i am woken up at about 3 o'clock one morning because some guy, about 25 years old, is on my bed. he didn't touch me and, as far as i'm concerned had no intention to. he was simply going for my mobile which i sleep next to. it's my alarm clock. this, however, is hindsight. at the time i was more frightened than i've ever been. with my heart in my throat i leapt out of bed and chased him out of the house. not sure what i thought i was going to do had he not run away. luckily, i never had to find out. turns out he had scaled over the balcony (three storeys up). he only ended up with my phone and handbag, no biggie, but the fright lingered.
the police were nice, but useless. while they did nothing my boyfriend decided to ring my phone. the tool answered.
"Hello," said toolhead.
"Ahh g'day mate, this is Geoff from the Townsville Bulletin. Is Sara there?"
"Ahhh, na, she's not 'ere."
"Oh right. Do you know when she'll be available? She's won box seats to the Cowboys game this weekend but I need to know where to send them"
hook. line. sinker. toolhead gives his address. North Queenslanders will do just about anything for the Cows. anyway, Geoff, who's name is absolutely not Geoff, rings the cops and relays the story. they do nothing. NOTHING. hate.
scenario two. not as dramatic. i arrive in Sydney for a holiday with mates. first stop, pub. while i'm enjoying a few bevs, some knob jockey breaks into my mate's car a steals my suitcase. my favourite everything, gone. cops, useless.
but hang on, hang on. i am a reasonable person. intolerant, sure, but fair. as annoying as the cops perceived inaction was at the time I was truly furious at the little fuckers* who invaded my home, my friend's car and, in turn, my life.
these little shits (i call them little because at the very least they would possess little minds, little potential and, yes, i'm going to go there, little penises) have no idea how hard i work to own what i do. what right do they have to simply take it? even worse, what right do they have to, for the sake of a mobile phone and a handbag they dumped in a bush down the road, scare me to the point of losing sleep? i'll say it again. fuckers*.
i think that's all i have to say about that.
*i swear too much. i don't really want to swear in this blog because one, i'm trying to cut back and two, anyone can read camelshoes and there are some people who i am trying to impress. not you. or you. yes, you. anyway. trying to cut back, yarda yarda. in saying this, i will never eliminate the work fuck from my vocabulary. it is too expressive, too wonderfully perfect in certain situations. this blog entry is one such situation.