Dreamaticus

How had this crazy woman, who had stalked me online for the past couple of years, now managed to break into my house?

The scrap of paper pulled out of the pocket of our captive – now pinned bodily to the hall floor – provided the answer to my question. All the information she needed to break in was noted here, scribbled in my own hand writing on the back of a till receipt. I must have passed this on to her long ago, well before her bizarre reputation was common knowledge amongst my external work colleagues. I worked this out from the office phone number found at the bottom of the note. It was at least a decade out of date.

Even though it was I who had issued this ancient invitation, I was determined that X be charged with breaking, entering, stealing my CDs, and generally causing havoc, so we dialled the police. There was no reply. The next plan was to “hail” a police officer in the street. The first uniformed woman that I approached was no use: she was merely a captain in the sea scouts. Then a host of mounted police officers trotted by and they all stopped to hear the story. What surprised me most was that a young officer actually recognised the offender’s name. When my nephew PF ran out the house screaming that X had made her escape to Waverley Station, the same young officer assured me that the authorities would apprehend her on the next train to London Kings Cross.

(I was really looking forward to the trial, already thinking of RG in the prosecutor role.)