I got a stomach-flipping text on holiday far from home. “Hey, I heard there were gardaí outside your house the other night – everything okay?” asked a concerned friend a street away. She had found out through a neighbour on our street.
I panicked. Had we been robbed? But then I remembered I’m a journalist paying Dublin rent and there’s nothing in the kip worth stealing. What would they take? My six-year-old duct-taped laptop that gives my legs burns? Then it came out that one neighbour had reported to another they’d merely thought the police were at ours but got it wrong. I was left slightly shaken, ordering a double rum and Coke at the bar.