A few weeks ago, I was about to get into the car when I noticed it had been left unlocked. Everything seemed to be in order except for the satnav. Had it been pinched? Or had I taken it from the car, at the end of some weary journey, intending to update the device on the internet? I might very well have slipped it into a pocket.
I didn’t want to believe it had been stolen: it would’ve meant buying another one. On the other hand, I was running out of pockets to search. The other day, however, my wife reported that the police had called. Out of a plastic bag, they produced our satnav. A local reprobate had been caught, his flat had been searched, and the device had been found among the haul. The police had tapped in ‘Home’ and had been led to our address. They were pleased to have solved a crime, even before it had been reported. But then they took the thing away again, because it was now evidence.
I suppose we might see it again in a year, if it isn’t lost in the court process. Strangely, however, I’m enjoying its absence. I love maps. I feel like a member of Margaret Thatcher’s cabinet when the Leaderene was abroad: I fear the return of the bossy voice.
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