Across the pond

This could have been headlined ‘Crime wave in Hampstead’, but since I am not working for the Daily Mail, it will report the facts in context. And it will be written from the journalist’s perspective. And journalists, however well trained and well intentioned, are subject in their daily lives to the pressure of the events in their own lives. Which are not much different in this respect from the lives of the readers.

Troubles rarely come singly. But when I drove up to London on Wednesday I had forgotten that. I thought I had one problem. My daughter had phoned to say that her problem had stopped working. The lights on the modem were flashing merrily, but when she pressed the button nothing happened. So I promised to drive to Colchester on Thursday and sort it out.

Blissful optimist that I am.

But when I arrived I found that my London computer was behavinig in a somewhat similar way. When I pressed the button it summoned Windows XP in the usual manner but then immediately switched itself off. I unplugged everything and tried again and again.

By which time there were howls of anger from the kitchen from my wife who insisted that the phone, also supplied by Virgin Media, was not working. But at least I had an explanation, since my daughter was also on Virgin. Finally, Richard Branson had overstretched himself too much, and his empire was failing to meet the demands generated by his brilliant self publicity. (And you have to hand it to him, not many rogues would have the nerve to call their company, ‘Virgin’.

I had the bit between my teeth, but, as you all know, you have to be patient to deal with problems like this. You have to listen to the propaganda and the option list, and the ‘virginal’ messages, which informs you, that since you are calling from a mobile this call will cost you. (They never say how much!).

By the time I went to bed I had at least got an admission from Virgin that the landline had a fault and they would send someone to fix it – a weed of Friday. And I did not answer the door between 8 and 11 I would be subject to a penalty charge. I slept soundly. Notsomuch the sleep of the just but sheer exhaustion.

Over breakfast my wife reminded me that my daughter had switched to Sky when she moved to Colchester, so that her problems, whatever they were, were happening under the rule of Rupert Murdoch, not Richard Branson. So I used my own diagnostic tools to try and discover why my computer was not listening to me.

I was making some progress, when at lunchtime, a neigbour popped over to tell me that the front passenger window of our Toyota Prius had been shattered during the night. We rushed over to investigate. All the newly bought camping gear belonging to my elder daughter was still there. Probably the criminals could no get them out of the windows, and the doors were still locked and the lights flashing and the alarm sounding.

The CD compartment had been opened, but they were all there.  They would not have time to look at them all, but obviously Acker Bilk, Humphrey Lyttelton and Frank Sinatra were not very appealing.

What was missing was a tin of sweets from the glove compartment and my car ashtray, a plain black tub, with a top on,  settling in what is meant to the coffee hole in the Prius. Because the Prius, selling on its greeness is for people who have given up smoking years ago.

My ashtray, given for free by the salesman who wanted to clinch the deal, does not compare with the Bohemian crystal. But in the last two years I have loved it, because it enabled me to smoke my camels tidily, preserving the image of the Prius brand.

What on earth the thieves did with it, I know not. And most likely my theives will end up in care or prision. But neither do I know what Branson and Murdoch do with the considerable monies they continue to accumulate.

Today’s news includes an attack by the President of the CBI, Richard Lambert, on the proposals to limit the hefty bonuses the City financiers are still paying themselves despite the mess they have made of the global economy. And news of one of the consequences of their actions, another rise in American un-employment.

Given the greed of these bankers and corporate bosses, and the willingness of many of the rest of us to let them get away with it, it is amazing their is not a serious crime wave from the council flats around Hampstead.

But there isn’t. And although this is the first time that my car window has been smashed after fifty years in the neighbourhood, I do remember that throughout those fifty years it has been happening to other people in the street.