MEL BUTTLE
“My heart sank a bit – none of my stuff was good enough for this thief”
Acrime has been committed at my house, a real one too, not like the time I made spaghetti bolognese with chicken mince. I’m not great on attention to detail, and I can never solve those pick the seven differences between these two pictures puzzles. However, I know I didn’t go to bed with all car doors left a little bit open. This wasn’t my slackness, for once. The car had been broken into. I was torn between feeling violated and also excited knowing that a forensics kit would be used in my presence soon.
I’ve listened to a lot of true crime podcasts – it’s a thing women of my age do, we live for true crime and gut health. Keen to see if anything was taken, I opened the door a little further with the car key, to find the contents of my glove box strewn all over the place. Every tissue had been pulled out of its box, all those things you shove in the glove box for a rainy day were on the car seat, lip balm, sunglasses, even a sushi soy sauce fish.
Nothing was taken. My heart sank a bit – none of my stuff was good enough for this thief. It was a dual feeling of relief when I realised I remembered to bring my earbuds inside but, simultaneously, I felt a bit deflated to think that no one wanted any of my very nice hand cream.
When I told people of my brush with crime, everyone said the same thing, “Didn’t you hear them?” I didn’t. Thank you sleep magnesium supplement, and hypnosis sleep story, but I didn’t hear a thing. Of course it was the one night the dogs were exceptionally well behaved and didn’t stir either. Useless. If our thief, however, had been munching on a box of Barbecue Shapes as they rummaged through my car, different story.
The next question people ask is, “Did the neighbours see anything?” They didn’t. One neighbour thought it was me in my car at midnight. I can barely keep my eyes open past whatever dating, cooking, renovation show is on after the news. If I’m in my car at midnight, I’m sleep walking. Please intervene as I’m having that dream that I work back at Woolworths in the deli again and I’m late for my shift.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had the police around. When I was eight my trampoline was stolen which, looking back now, wasn’t a huge shock. I grew up in a suburb with very few boundary fences; the trampoline’s only security was
Dad’s catamaran in front of it. Easy pickings for those with Tetris skills and a deep desire to own a yellow trampoline with “Melinda rules” written on it in Texta.
I’m not as innocent as I may look, I’ve done some bad things too. I once stole a glitter bouncy ball that was calling my name from Kmart Caloundra. When was this, Mel? 1991. I couldn’t cope with the guilt so I returned it to the shelf I got it from a few days later. It had been bounced within an inch of its life.
I didn’t think ahead on this theft, I had no answer for my mum who quite rightly asked, “Where did you get that ball from?” I paused for way too long, then said, “Aunty Beverley gave it to me.” To which Mum countered with, “So if I call Aunty Bev now, will she tell me that she bought you that ball?” Checkmate. CSI Mum had got me good. The bouncy ball went back to Kmart and so ended my reign of terror, as the mastermind and top dog of the bouncy ball theft syndicate.