Burglars leave plenty behind

Beck Eleven
Beck Eleven

What a fortnight. I've been burgled and robbed.

Before the outpouring of sympathy begins, it's not as bad as it sounds.

Let me take you to my quakehouse. While the insurers cannot make up their minds whether the quakehouse is a rebuild or a repair, it sits like a gigantic health hazard, fire risk and eyesore for the neighbourhood.

I hate going there and I hate looking at it. Until it is fixed or bulldozed I feel emotionally connected to it. At the very least, I am financially connected. Weeds are so high they can eyeball me. It drips with bricks and broken guttering. To me it screams of hate. Yet to others, burglars and the like, it screams "come in".

In the latest break-in, they left behind a little DNA in the form of a bucket of wees in the kitchen and a pile of number 2 in the toilet. Let me remind you, this is a quakehouse and of course the toilet does not flush.

Like a woman possessed, or at least like a woman possessed with the mouth of a trucker, I swore a lot.

The defecation revelation coincided with the official opening of our building, Press House, by John Key.

And you know how it is, you're furiously angry so you think you might as well see how far you can push your tolerance by listening to a politician. Anyway, I weasled through the crowd and found myself standing next to Gerry Brownlee. Now, it's not often one can feel sorry for Gerry but the poor bugger asked me how I was. Or at least, I imagine he asked because before I knew it, I had used the words piss and s--- and also dropped the C-bomb.

Seriously, I'm not proud of this and if my mum finds out I'll probably be picking Palmolive Gold out of my teeth for weeks.

Anyway, that's a measure of how furious I was about the soiling of my property.

A few days later, I was also robbed. Robbed of my chance to let my inner litigator shine.

A couple of months ago a woman reversed into my car. Of course it could have all been cleared up nicely but she would not admit liability so I was going to have to pay the excess of $300.

I did not wish to shell out for her stupidity and I was so convinced I was in the right that I was willing to take it to the Disputes Tribunal. I had filled out the forms and everything. I was beginning to sew my own horsehair lawyer's wig. I was going to wear braces so I could hook my thumbs into them and pace up and down in front of the mediator, occasionally stopping to spin wildly and say a lot of things with all due respect.

My closing argument was to become a thing of legend. My voice would have quivered then built to a crescendo when I delivered the final line: "And I put it to you that when she reversed into my Nissan Wingroad, she wasn't just reversing into me, your honour, she was reversing into the good people OF THIS COUNTRY."

Then I would almost whisper: "I rest my case."

Anyway, at the last minute, she decided that accepting liability was a better option so I don't need to go to the Disputes Tribunal.

I am now wondering if she found the address of my quakehouse and made a toilet stop.

The Press