Banged up in Munich for being English. Probably.


I am sitting here waiting – vigilesque – for my errant husband who is coming home from a boozy boys holiday in Munich tonight.

At least, I think he’s coming home tonight. I’m sure that’s what he said before he left. The trouble is, there is only an hour left of “tonight” and I haven’t heard from him.

In fact, I haven’t heard from him at all since he muttered (in the way a text can mutter) something about his phone dying on Friday afternoon. Radio silence descended after that. One can only presume that he forgot to take a charger. Add that to the sunglasses and camera that he also forgot.

As long as he doesn’t home home with any of those items purchased brand new. Although I think we’re safe on the charger side.

I have been expecting the call to come from Munich police, that they’ve got him in custody for being drunk and disorderly, and will I post bail. I don’t think it’s safe to send money through the mail though, I so probably wouldn’t.

They might even think he’s German. He’s been told he looks Deutcher before. And while he doesn’t speak it, when drunk he’s not known for being intelligible in any language anyway.

I’ve been alone in the house since Friday – not that you’d know. I don’t broadcast that kind of thing. “Hey nutcases on twitter, lone woman and two kids in the house, why don’t you drop in for a little rampage!”

It’s not that I am afraid of being in the house by myself. I was when I was younger, but now I am getting on, that kind of excitement might be the spice I need. Besides, there is a softball bat under the bed, and I know how to use it.

Not to get home runs though. I’ve only ever got to third base, and that was technically on errors, since the pitch was on a hill, and the ball was running down it. So was I until second base, but then I had to start running uphill. That slowed me down somewhat.

It was after two guys tried to rob us that Mr Boxer Shorts put the softball bat under the bed. The would be thieves didn’t actually have to try that hard to rob us that night. 

I was woken up when Mr Boxer Shorts started shouting out the window, and he’d woken when something banged.

Thief number 1 was in our shed rummaging about for tools, while thief number 2 came up to see what the door was like. He was just on his way back down the garden to tell thief number 1 that we were a pair of completely dickwads, and had left our back door open, when the door he’d just pushed open slammed shut. 

The two thieves departed very swiftly over our fence and down the back access way, at which point I gave chase down the street out the front of the house in my pajama bottoms and vest. They were Boden pajama pants, so I did look almost respectable.

I didn’t catch them, but I did get the number plate of the car they drove off in. It never did any good, as they were never caught. Still, I thought it was worth trying – the fact that they were trying to rob us just made me so angry.

That night also gave birth to the name of Mr Boxer Shorts for my hubby. Because while I was running down the road in my pajamas screaming like a samurai warrior*, going for blood – he was prowling the hosue in his boxer shorts, locking all the doors, and wishing he’d thought of putting my softball bat under the bed.

So make a note, would be thieves, I give chase, and can hit bloody hard.

Also, the would be car theives outside eyeing up George who now has a broken window which I taped up earlier this evening – don’t even thing about it. Just think Kill Bill, and you’ve got the vengence I will wreak upon you.

And where the bloody hell is my husband? That softball bat might still be coming out tonight at this rate!

* I may NOT have been screaming like a warrior, I suspect that is embroidery on the truth. The rest is gospel!

Categories: crazy people