Yesterday evening my eighty-three year old mother heard someone kick in her front door – so went into the hall to investigate. She found a man dressed in black wearing a black balaclava. “What are you doing in my house?” she shouted.
The guy stopped – looked at her, looked round the room and said “sorry love, wrong house.” and ran out – the daft old bat then followed him out to see another man similarly dressed. Thug one yells at thug two “we’ve got the wrong f***g address and they run off.
Mater then calls the plod who turn up in droves.
Seems a gang of five had planned to break in next door and steal the guns our neighbour keeps in a safe in his study. Three had gone in through the woods at the back to the correct house, but the two sent round to the front had miscounted the houses and found my mother instead.
They didn’t get the guns – and one got bitten by the dog.
As there were firearms involved it became a serious crime scene rather than a straight forward burglary.
My Mother loved every minute. Although I did tell her that if it had been in London the masked man would have just kept coming.
I am going down to oversee installation of new security lights and a stronger door frame.