(Or why it’s only a matter of time before the flat is broken into…)

Yesterday Ruthy and I got back from work to find that one of the flats on the floor below us had been broken into.  The police were there and their door (the flat door, not one belonging to the police) was a right old mess.

Now, flats get broken into all the time.  That’s life, unfortunatly.  But a year ago the other downstairs flat was broken into.  Not good.  I dunno what was taken on either occasion but I’d hate to have someone break in, whether or not they take anything is immaterial.

Of course, if they targeted my flat they’d have to fight through the mess and the comics and all the rest of the guff I have strategically lying about the place.  (Did you think there wasn’t a reason for the comic boxes stacked worryingly high?)

But why am I getting all concerned about it now?  I suppose it’s just my natural paranoia.  I think we tend to float through life not concerning ourselves about certain things until it happens to or around us. In a day or two it’ll be out my mind completely.

After all, is there anything I can do to stop it happening?  If someone really wants to break into a property, is there anything we can do to stop them?

BigAl