You see, this British little life of ours is so absolutely perfect, we knew it was just a matter of time until it went to the dogs.
Last month, our amazing, indecently expensive, shoebox of a flat was broken into.
I’m sure this is a common occurrence for the more adventurous of you, but it’s a first for me and V. After all, we do come from peaceful, filthy rich Romania, where people use banknotes as wallpaper and never ever steal from each other. Not. We’ve just been stupidly lucky I assume. But I digress.
We’ve been renting this flat for about two years. It’s in a pretty nice neighborhood, if being part of the only dodgy flat complex in a sea of £1.000.000+ houses with Bentleys parked in front stands for nice in your book. It’s got windows, so it gets freezing cold in winter, and it’s on the top floor, so it doubles as a super duper sauna in summer. We need to religiously watch our weight or we won’t be able to move around the kitchen, and every other family in the building has about half a dozen future opera singing toddlers. Perfect, I tell you.
One fateful evening we got home to a broken door and what seemed to be the aftermath of a tornado. Every single piece of clothing we owned was piled up in the middle of the bedroom, while the living room floor was covered in books, CDs and other trinkets. As V. was turning his Hulk mode on, I quickly evaluated the loss. Two brand new laptops, a DSLR camera with half a dozen lenses, my Kindle tablet and some family jewelry. I later found out they’d also taken one of my t-shirts. It may sound weird but no, don’t get any ideas, they used it to wipe their fingerprints on their way out, and obviously decided to keep it realizing how sexy it was. We also had tons of cash in the flat: a €5 note and about £300 worth of Romanian currency. They only took the €5 note, which says a lot about their sneaky standards.
For the first time since we’ve moved to London I’ve had the pleasure to chit chat with the Police, and it really was an experience to remember.
Apparently, we’re the epitome of super duper prepared and responsible victims. There was a working CCTV camera above the building entrance, and a strong door with a working intercom system. There was also a CCTV camera in our flat (Told you we’re prepared!), which the visitors didn’t notice as they probably were too distracted by that €5 note lying in plain sight. So not only did the detectives get their fingerprints (My sexy t-shirt didn’t help much!), but also clear video footage of the events. “Fingerprints, footage! Oh, we’ll definitely investigate this!” said the nice detective, and I thought, don’t ALL these things get investigated anyway?
Nope. They don’t.
Growing up is no easy thing, I tell you. I took a day off from work to clean up the mess and wipe the leftover fingerprints off my shelves. I discovered t-shirts and jeans I’d forgotten about, some of which I still fit into. So it was a good day, I guess.
For a couple of weeks, my life’s been this heartbreaking, black and white, indie drama. I was afraid I’d come home in the evening and walk in on super friendly people going through my drawers. I seriously considered buying a baseball bat, but I couldn’t find a pink, Hello Kitty one! (For now I’ll let you know when I’m kidding, at least until you get to know me better. So, kidding!) Now that I’ve got a new laptop (and a better hiding place for it!) and we’ve pretty much replaced everything else, life’s all pink and glittery again.
I’ll keep you posted though, I’m sure we’ll get them! It’s only a matter of time until I run into one of them wearing my sexy yellow t-shirt on the streets of our posh crime friendly neighborhood!