Wandering wallets

When the NRMA rang me yesterday I assumed it was because I had forgotten to pay a bill. It took a minute or so for me to stop what I was doing and tune in to the voice on the other end of the phone. The caller told me that the NRMA had been contacted by a random stranger who had possession of my wallet.

My stomach dropped and I felt the blood drain from my face. I jumped up from my desk and ran through the house like a mad woman looking for said wallet. Now this may seem an odd reaction to the uninitiated, but regular readers of this blog will remember that I was robbed a few months ago and my wallet (along with every piece of hardcopy evidence as to my identity) was among the stolen items.

To my great relief my (new) wallet was exactly where I had left it, complete with (all new) contents. I returned to the caller who, to his credit, had remained on the line during my brief rampage and asked him what he was talking about.

Apparently the stolen wallet had been found. The finder had gone through the wallet and taken out the remaining cards and found my NRMA roadside service card – hence the contact. This might seem like a reasonable thing to do, but the wallet had been discarded in an alley before all the rain Sydney had during July, so it was soaked and muddy and had crawly things in it. Nevertheless this stranger picked up the sodden mess and went through it looking for something to identify the owner. He then went to the trouble to contact the NRMA so they could contact me.

You’d think I’d be grateful for this wouldn’t you? And I was―sort of. See the thing was, I didn’t want to meet him to pick it up or give my address for him to post it back. When the NRMA guy told me he was going to put him on the line, I was less than gracious. It’s not that I didn’t want it back, I did. It’s just that, well, what if it was someone who was trying to get access to me or the house for not so honest reasons? So when he asked how he would get it me I told him to just take it to the police station.

I didn’t expect him to, but he did. About an hour later I received a call from the police telling me they had my wallet and I could pick it up if I wanted to but it wasn’t in good condition. They were right about that!

The constable told me the bloke who dropped it in found it in the alley behind his house and when he opened it and saw photos of a child, thought that whomever it belonged to might like to have it back. Very considerate. This guy took time out of his day and had to go through several channels to make sure the wallet came back to me, despite my lack of enthusiasm. I didn’t make it easy for him but he persevered anyway.

Kind of restores my faith in human nature a bit. So thank you stranger, you made my day.

Robbery Blues

We were robbed the other day. Persons unknown somehow gained entry to our house and stole our stuff. My house mate disturbed them when he arrived home, and the burglars made a quick escape through the back door as he was coming in the front. We’re not sure how they got in. Apart from locking the doors I’ve never worried too much about security despite being in the city for over a year now; it’s a quiet street in a lovely neighbourhood and we’ve felt comfortable and safe here. Until now.

Everyone keeps telling us that we are lucky we did not get hurt. And we are. The burglars didn’t physically harm us. They just stole stuff. I can replace the camera, just not the photos it contained of the holiday in Queensland my daughter shouted me just before she left to live overseas. I can replace credit cards, ATM cards, licenses, medicare cards, and the other stuff. It’s inconvenient but it’s not insurmountable.

The loss of my iPhone was (and remains) incredibly challenging. I didn’t realise how dependent I had become on that little black box.  I haven’t used a hardcopy diary or address book for years, and I was never as vigilant at syncing as I perhaps could have been; so have lost music, videos, photos and all my appointments and contacts. Friends constantly take the piss about my iPhone being an extension of my arm―and it’s true. Was true. I can’t explain why I left it on the arm of the lounge chair when I walked the dogs that day. But again, though I grieve for the phone―it’s just stuff.

The real loss has nothing to do with material possessions. It is something that can never be replaced. Something that can’t be fixed. And it is far worse for my young house mate.

He has lost his faith in people―and his sense of security. That the lowlife/s who robbed us had the power to do this to him makes my blood boil!

Realising for the first time, that there exists people who have no regard for others has been particularly difficult for him. Listening to him try to rationalise and understand the hows and whys of the ‘break and enter’ has been heartbreaking.

I try to reassure him. I tell him I still believe that most people are good. I tell him that I will not allow this incident to challenge my belief that everyone has intrinsic value. I tell him that he needs to put it behind him and stop trying to understand why.

I don’t tell him about the baseball bat that now comes to bed with me.