Police matter

Have you ever been to a police station?

I don’t think I have … other than during a field trip as a cadet journalist at the Newcastle Herald, where I accidentally saw crime scene photos I can never unsee.

Oh, and I’ve been to the Surry Hills headquarters to be on corporate communications duty for Vivid Sydney.

But I don’t think I’ve ever popped into my local one for personal reasons.

Maybe I have and don’t remember. It seems implausible that I’ve reached the age of 57 and not gone to one for something.

Anyways, I visited my local one last night (which wasn’t very local) to hand in the laptop I found in the garden in suspicious circumstances (read yesterday’s blog post, which Facebook decided not to share widely, for details).

When I told the policewoman why I was there she immediately went to get gloves before handling the laptop, which was embarrassing because I’d just picked it up bare handed when I found it and put my prints all over it.

I gave her the details of its presumed theft, including a description of the bloke, then wondered to myself if he’s just found the laptop somewhere, then dumped it when he realised it held no value.

Oh well, it’s off my hands now.

In other news, DD flew to the UK yesterday afternoon in the pointy end of the plane after scoring an upgrade and sent me a pic of his French bubbles. Sigh.

I also dropped into a farewell at the pub next door to the office before my police station visit.

And I read lots of shocking celebrity stories on the bus on the way home, including a few on the Beckham scandal, which is really next level.

Brooklyn seems to have taken the same torch-the-family route as Prince Harry. Hard to come back from. But if even half of what he’s saying is remotely true, eeeek.

Much like that message the tangerine tyrant sent to Norway’s Prime Minister …

Far out. This world we are living in.

Song of the day: The Police “De do do do”