Dear readers, if by chance you see a fabulous, large, black Pony* bag with an azure interior on the shoulder of some ‘style queen’ in a cloud of exquisite fragrance, wearing a pair of fabulous prescription “SALTs”, do me a favour: kick his ass… I mean, slap her wrists and send the bag and the specs to the Observer. There is a reward. No questions asked.

The inevitable happened. I was robbed in broad daylight. My school. My car. My handbag. In the short 10 minutes it took to collect my son from his classroom, some cokehead or otherwise well-dressed person (we’re not sure because absolutely no one saw or heard anything in the very busy parking lot) smashed my car window, grabbed the hard-earned handbag with its precious cargo and disappeared through the gates.

Kudos to the officers at the Matilda’s Corner Police Station who called me that very evening to say some of the contents of the bag had been found by a concerned citizen on Widcombe Road and returned to them. Cheers to them, for there were two other incidents of robbery in the community that day — one victim had his bag returned to him. Clearly a bag that’s not as desirable as my Pony. I am relieved to have got back my identification, credit and insurance cards, chequebook and other items too. While I appreciate the scandal bag the items were returned in, it would have been nice to get my wallet back and the tools of my trade: my pens and pencils.

So as I hope against hope, until my Pony is returned (I pray that the thief comes down with a bad case of eye strain and a severe fur rash) I will make my very own fashionable, politically correct statement with a simple, eco-tote bag from the National Gallery of Art. As I no longer have any cash, a wallet is unnecessary and interest rates being what they are, I won’t reactivate the credit cards. I daresay my spending will be reduced to the very few establishments that take cheques – perhaps this robbery was a good thing after all. And my husband will appreciate my new fiscal restraint, if he ever discovers how much I used to spend on mere accessories.

Many thanks for the excellent service at Dr Glass and for Dave’s words of advice: leave nothing, absolutely nothing in your car. Not a coin, not a shiny bit of plastic, not a phone charger, nothing. One lady’s trash is another’s treasure (or at least worthy of a coke ‘hit’) and cars have been broken into for contents less beloved than my Pony.

While window replacement usually occurs as a result of accidents or ‘malicious destruction of property and simple larceny’, as our laws have determined this act, a good portion of Dr Glass’s business comes as a result of mad wives, jealous girlfriends and men who suspect their partners are up to no good.

There was one player who smashed another player’s window each time he saw his car parked at their mutual girlfriend’s house. He did this many, many times, until the eediat eventually got the message and stopped visiting. Waste of time and effort, I say. Compare that to the story of the woman who followed her husband’s car to a local love motel and waited for the opportunity to slash all four of his tyres and take a lug tool to every piece of glass and mirror to be found on the car. Dr Glass gave him a nice discount in exchange for the hour’s worth of amusing stories. The man, they understand, has been behaving himself ever since. Dr Glass works real fast too: the story was told of the woman who smashed her husband’s windshield while parked, she thought, in his lover’s lane one afternoon. He got the window replaced in record time, returned home within the hour, and acted as though nothing unusual had happened that day. The poor woman was left to wonder whose car she had destroyed that afternoon.

But I digress. Security guards should not be parking attendants; telling you how to ‘line up yuh cyar’ and squeeze your truck inna de tight parking spot, but that’s a whole other column. Instead, they should be allowed to look out for those nefarious characters who prey on those who foolishly think we’re not vulnerable on school campuses and church grounds and in ‘secure’ parking lots. The fact of the matter is that we’re not safe anywhere.

Yes, yes, yes, in the grand scheme of things I was lucky, and the common refrain, “At least I have life”, holds true. But what good is the life if the hard work you put into getting the things you need and want lie in wait for someone to simply take them from you? What good is the life when you start to suspect everyone around you of being out to get you? What good is a life where dangers lurk in every corner, even the sacred ones? My handbag was a simple sacrifice. But when there are no handbags left in cars in the school parking lot, what will they come for next?

* No animals were harmed in the construction of this handbag

scowicomm@gmail.com