Middle of the night, a horrible crash rumbles through the house. I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter: Oliver (okay), furnace (okay), back windows (okay). Looked out the peep-hole in the front door, then opened it: gazillions of tiny pieces of glass all over the floor of the front vestibule and the top window of the screen door smashed:
Called the police (wasn’t sure whether this was an “emergency” so I called the non-emergency number) and they took my details and said they would send someone over.
Five minutes later there was a crunch at the front door; opened the door and was greeted by fresh-faced young officer who poked around, didn’t find any projectiles or blood or other evidence of what might have done the smashing. He mused that it might be a pellet gun, but this was just a guess, as there was no real evidence to suggest this other than the absence of other evidence.
He radioed in for an “occurrence number” which he gave to me on a card in case I wanted to submit an insurance claim.
Left the clean-up until morning and then spent the next 2 hours trying to get back to sleep.
Not an important or particularly unusual happening in downtown Charlottetown, but a rip in the inviolacy-of-home continuum nonetheless.
By the time I slouched downstairs this morning Catherine, true to form, was out in the front yard cleaning things up; the photo above is after she’d done most of this.