Yeah, most of the time I try to channel Grace Kelly, but last night was not one of those times, as I alternated between leaking through my eyeballs (some people call it crying) and swearing at the state of our nation, the human race at large, and whichever motherfuckingassholebastardshits ruined my evening last night.
They broke into Biscuit, snipped her little lifeforce (the battery) so she couldn't even cry (the alarm didn't go off) and then disemboweled her (ripped the radio – sans face I might add – out).
Hence the extreme vulgarity.
I know this shit happens to everyone all the time, but for me it was a massive crises. Not only because I gave myself the creeps afterwards (Did they watch me arrive at the twins' flat for book club? What if I'd left early and disturbed them in the process and they'd bundled me into the boot? And how could I have gotten into the car like a total idiot before realising anything was wrong? There could have been someone waiting inside.)
No, also because I hate being wrong. Certain people warned me not to get a citi golf, that it was just too easy for thieves to snip the battery and steal the thing, but I didn't listen because I wanted my Biscuit.
Oh poor, poor Biscuit. She's getting all fixed up today. She's been to the police station, the battery centre and the alarm/radio guys already this morning.
At least the (see aforementioned string of dirty words) didn't steal her Stay Soft refill.
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