New life •
Burglars beware
Zenga Longmore
Last Tuesday saw me struggling up the stairs with bagfuls of shopping after an arduous but fruitful excursion to the local market. Omalara lay asleep in her sling, but her eyes snapped open on hearing Delson's dismal tones. Delson, a born- again Christian, lives in the flat opposite mine, and as soon as I beheld his droopy countenance I knew trouble was brewing. Delson only ever moons about outside my door when I've had a break-in.
Before I reveal the sickening reason for Delson's guest appearance, let me first inform the world of the last time unseen shoulders biffed my door off its hinges, exactly one year ago.
It was a dank October evening, and I had just returned home after a hearty night out at the Lounge Lizard. Turning the key in the lock, it suddenly hit me that there was no lock; indeed, there was precious little door. It was then that Delson emerged from the shadows to impart the news that uninvited guests had done their worst.
`Don't go in yet. The shock will be too great.'
`What have they taken?'
`Nothing, as far as I could make out. When I saw your door hanging off its hinges, I went inside and phoned the Police. Them thieves never took nothing, sis Zenga, but they've . . . they've . . .
`Spit it out, man.'
`They've mashed up your flat good and proper. The state it's in would make the angels weep. Why don't you come into my flat first, have a strong cup of tea and Prepare yourself?'
I declined the invitation, clanked open the splintered door, took a deep breath and walked into the front room. All the drawers hung open, books, clothes and the previous week's papers littered the floor. In other words, everything was exactly as I had left it.
I told you, didn't I? And the bedroom's worse. As for the bathroom, it's — it's horrible. Them robbers are pond life, that's what they are, whole heaps of nastiness.'
Needless to say, the bedroom and bath- room were in their usual, shall we say cosy state. I even got the impression they'd tidied up the kitchen. Delson looked on with tear-filled eyes. The police were called in, but, as they informed me, `There's nothing you can do to catch 'em, madam. Council flats in this area are done in all the time — er, just one sugar, thank Yo u ' Nothing was stolen so I was not too Perturbed, just a mite insulted perhaps. But back to last Tuesday. Delson was there to tell me that the hippies next door had been burgled, so could he use my telephone. I led him into the front room.
`Oh no! They've done it again! How did they get in? Look at the mess, it's worse than last time!'
Having spent the entire morning tidying up, I was more than a trifle miffed by Delson's over-reaction. Only a few baby clothes, prams and nappies lay about the Place, with the odd overflowing waste-bin dotted about. How do people confine a baby's personal articles to one room? They travel everywhere until it appears to the outside observer that no less than 50 babies abide on the premises. Future burglars be warned. I own no- thing stealable save bottles, rattles and baby wipes, but you'll have to wade through the general chaos to locate them. You'll know my flat. Brixton station, turn right past the mud-coloured estate on stilts and it's the tower block on the left — only watch out for Delson.
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