1995. It's said that bad luck comes in threes. I had just injured my leg in a skiing accident, my tenants had done a flit and let the house filthy and unrentable, and now my car had been stolen. I got off the train and limped down to the station car park, but where was the car? I looked back and forth, but it wasn't there: just a pile of broken glass to suggest that entry had been made through a rear window. What the ...? Didn't this sort of thing only happen to other people? All right, I will admit that repairing it was still cheaper than its purchase price, but the paint was fainted from 17 years in the sun, and unkind people were known to use the term, "rust bucket" when talking about it. Who'd want to steal something like that? At the Sandgate Police Station an officer entered the details into a computer and told me that, if it had been taken for a joy ride rather than parts, they would likely find it in a few days, for they usually cruised around car parks at night looking for stolen cars.
That was late on Thursday. None of us could have predicted the sort of craziness which the weekend would bring.
