Fragments

As many of you will know, on Friday morning our weekday normality was shattered by a chunk of roof tile.

We were running late, as usual (I am one of those people who is perpetually late). My car is an absolute state at the best of times, so for a split second I thought the tile was just another piece of shit I’d gathered on my travels that’d ended up on the passenger side floor. At the same time that I spotted the tile, I registered that it was chucking it down, so I flicked the wipers on. What was left of the back window rained in to the boot. My heart lurched to the tinkling tune of breaking glass.

“What the fuck…”. It was Joel’s voice. I glanced from the gaping hole in my car to the piece of tile on the floor and his eyes followed. “What the FUCK,” he repeated, lurching out of the car to open what was left of the boot.

It was becoming increasingly clear with each passing second that I was about to lose my shit. I don’t know why I said “what was in the boot” at this point, my voice shrill and melting in to a sob by the fourth syllable. I knew what had been in the boot.

.........

I don’t carry a handbag, I carry a backpack. It’s a habit that’s left over from my football-playing, boy-fighting childhood. I’d carried that burgundy Jack Wills one around the world, from Australia to Europe to Iceland to America to the Maldives to Southeast Asia…

At the bottom of the bag were the tokens of my journeys. Tickets, keyrings, Disney badges, GoPro accessories, an underwater case for my phone, all manner of currency. Gifts that Joel had gotten me for our very first anniversary.

In addition to all of that, there was a lot of shit (e.g. a 5 year old pack of Microgynon – remember that girls – and random bits of A Level revision). Joel had been on at me to clear that bag out for years. He said the stuff I was hoarding was taking up space that could be used for stuff we actually needed, hahaha.

I’d been to uni on the Thursday evening; I’d needed to renew a couple of books at the library. That bag had carried many many things in its time, and that evening it contained all of my notes, 2 library books and my purse. I should’ve taken it out of the car. Of COURSE I should have. The one night my purse was in my bag and not in the house… But isn’t that always the way it goes?

That night, Joel had football and I had a gin (or 3). I was stressed about money. We did manage to scrape enough together for the rent but I haven’t shopped for everyone for Christmas yet. That makes me miserable because my mother deserves an island for Christmas and all I can afford is a fucking selection box.

I went to bed semi-drunk. I was upset with myself for not getting a job sooner, for not ringing home enough, for not making enough of an effort with friends and more importantly, with Joel. Of course, I dealt with that by shutting off from everyone and not waiting up for Joel. Classic Dover behaviour.

.........

So, you see, when I realised my backpack was gone on Friday morning, I was already on the brink of an absolute meltdown. I think Joel thought I’d actually lost my mind. I was distantly aware of him taking my phone off me as a screamed the fucking house down. “Shhhh Char… Char… Char, I’ll get your mum”.

My mum is my reset button. No matter how much I screw everything up, she evens it out again. I told her this and she said, “Just don’t fucking get arrested there’s nothing I can do about that.” I don’t think she’s giving herself enough credit. Sure enough, everything is OK again thanks to her, gramps and Julian. What a phenomenal set of parents I have.

One thing I do want to comment on as part of this post is the fractured state of our emergency services. Of course, as well as my mum, we phoned the police. A kind officer came around to the house having found some of my stuff. Shame about the torrential rain, though, because not a lot of it was salvageable.

Anyway, she took some details down and I pointed out the CCTV camera on the house opposite ours. The family who live there are really lovely and had helped me cover the broken window with sheets of plastic in the pouring rain (probably because I looked like a blubbering nutcase). She said she would have a look at the footage but if there were no clear faces “it probably wouldn’t make any difference”.

As in, “there’s probably nothing we can do about it”. That message was loud and clear from the police on Friday. My car is a mess of rainwater and glass, my precious things are gone or ruined, I have no money to fix the window… And there’s nothing you can do about it.

That isn’t anyone’s fault individually. Our emergency services are a casualty of the cracking economy. Today, the police are nothing more than an illusion of protection. 3 times in my life I have found myself needing the police, and 3 times in my life a lone officer has given me a crime number and said, “there’s probably nothing we can do about it”. I thank god I haven’t yet needed an ambulance.

I know I sound like a conspiracy theorist (you should hear Joel), but this is not sustainable. There is nothing deterring people from committing crime anymore. Officers patrol alone and cover impossibly large areas. Theft and vandalism are being ignored and, to be honest, it frightens me that one day I might be raped or worse and hear those gutting words, “there’s probably nothing we can do about it.”

The hands of the police are tied. Our great NHS is on its knees. I’m not clever enough to figure out what we’re supposed to do about it, but we must do something. If we don’t, the jagged fragments of our country will cut us open, one by one.