At 2am the other morning I received a message on my answer machine. “This is the police. There has been an attempted theft of your vehicle. It has been towed for further investigation. Phone this number for more details.”Great way to wake up on a Monday morning. I’ve actually just changed vehicles and bought my first new car, and for a moment I had the slimmest hope that perhaps they were talking about Flossie the old car, bless her heart. Old Flossie was a rust bucket and no mistake. Frankly I’d be amazed, and secretly delighted, if someone tried to steal her. I raced downstairs to check if new Flossie was still parked where I left her the night before. Bad news. She was gone.
I phoned the police. They were less than helpful. “We don’t know anything, maybe call this number.” So I called the next number and no luck. It went on like that for a couple of hours. I had no idea where my vehicle was or what kind of condition she was in. Did I mention that this was my first new car? As in shiny new, without even a scratch. She had 16 kilometres on the clock when I took her home. She still had that new car smell. Now Flossie 2 was gone. I had visions of flat tyres, shattered windows, slashed seats and much worse.
Finally later in the day I got hold of someone who said the vehicle was being finger-printed. The person who looked after the police garage did not work that day. “So why don’t you just sit tight and phone back tomorrow after ten thirty?” Fume, mutter, mutter.
I called the GarageFuhrer the next morning. I was told that I could not see my vehicle as there was a police investigation underway. I asked what kind of shape she was in. “Don’t know, can’t tell you anything like that”. “Well, has it got four wheels?” I couldn’t actually say “she”; they’d think I was nuts.“Sorry can’t help you there.” He did say I could go and obtain a release form for the vehicle. So off I went to the police station to get the form. Again, I met with a fairly miserable official, but I did manage to work out where my vehicle was being impounded. The form also indicated that if I didn’t move my vehicle by the following week, they would charge me daily storage charges and if I didn’t move it in six weeks, it would be sold off. Well how charming can you get? I couldn’t even see the chariot, never mind move it, and here I was being served with notice about it being flogged off.
The bit between my teeth now, my friend and I drove over to a rather unsavoury part of town where you wouldn’t walk at night if you had any sense. The police pound was pretty inhospitable with barb wire fences and a control tower. The voice on the intercom asked if they could assist me. I explained about my car and somewhat to our surprise, we were let in. I scanned row after and row of vehicles in various states of disrepair. I winced as I thought I saw what used to be my vehicle but my good friend reminded me that my car had four doors not two. As soon as I got to the office, the manager took my release form and immediately said there was no way I could get to see my car as it was under investigation. “Come back tomorrow and talk to the officer who deals with that.” Fume. My good friend diverted my attention and persuaded me to go and have a cool beer.
Fast forward 24 hours and I was back at Stalag 17 with my release form. After waiting a good half hour the police van showed up and drove off to the far section of the prison camp. “You should follow him,” snapped the commandant. I trudged after the truck in the beating sun. As I approached the lot, I could see Flossie 2. She had four wheels, bless her cotton socks. Messy as hell, covered in soot and mud, but she looked to be in one piece. The police officer was rather friendly, which took me back a bit after all the hassle I’d been through in the previous three days. We checked out Floss in more detail. There was damage to the passenger window where someone had tried to break in, however she was drivable. I was hugely relieved. I eased her out of the pound and sought out the nearest car wash to give Floss the equivalent of a hot bath with smelling salts.
Next day an ominous looking letter arrived from the Attorney General’s office. It turned out that five people were arrested trying to steal my vehicle and were due in court the following week. I was invited to make a victim impact statement. Bring back the stocks, I decided, and I’ll chuck rotten cabbages at them. You know what though? I’m thinking these impact statements are intended so that punters like me can have a good rant, and spill out all our frustrations. That way we don’t clog up surgeries and inhabit padded cells after going out of our minds after all the fuss, especially dealing with the mind numbing officialdom. After calming down a bit and sipping a hot cup of Ovaltine, I wrote quite a civilised piece about the costs and emotional impact of this incident, and fired it off to the court. I’ll hear next week if they have been convicted and sentenced to wash and wax Flossie every Saturday for the rest of her natural life. On reflection, perhaps I should have left that sentence out of the impact statement.
You’ll be pleased to know that today Flossie has pretty much all her fingers and toes. She has one addition. She has a rather becoming florescent green Club wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. I considered installing a Barry Manilow CD so that it started playing if anyone came within ten feet of her. However I’ve decided that it would be cruel and unusual punishment for poor Flossie, who has been through so much. Her frayed nerves just could not take that; she’d have a breakdown for sure.
