The Paranoia of Isolation

The story I am about to confess actually happened about 7 months ago, but I was too embarassed to breathe a word about it to anyone, except my husband.  Predictably, he went on to tell everyone about it, so now I may as well entertain you with it.

To paint the picture, at the time I was an exhausted mother of 2 small children aged under 3.  Our eldest had been through a bit of surgery and the month that followed was a tricky one, with pain management and an awful lot of waking in the night and being super-clingy.  Our youngest was still in habit of waking at 5am and yelling for attention (he now wakes at 7 and says eagerly "is it wakey wakey time?").  I had also just stood for Parliament in Scotland and put my one track baby-brain through a minefield of embarassing moments and times I really did have to think fast (i.e. bullshit).  We had moved house for the 4th time in 2 years and it was pretty tiring not just the unpacking and physically settling in, but the making new friends, finding childminders, trying to fast-track the awkward 'new person in the area' phase to being fully settled in and universally adored by my new neighbours.  I had even taken to smoking the odd cigarette in an attempt to ward off tears of misery and would hide behind the woodshed when the kids were having their lunchtime sleeps, puffing away like a rebelious teenager.

To say I was a knackered and grumpy cow at the time, is to completely understate my mental state.

So, when I looked up from the gigantic pile of laundy which I had been wrestling with to see a van at the end of our drive, towing a small farm trailer, with what looked like 3 men inside wearing black balaclavas, I froze.  (I should add that at the time I could recite Julia Donaldson's story "What the Ladybird Heard" completely off by heart, and any Donaldson fans will know that the baddies in the book consist of 2 men in a black van, with a map, a key and a cunning plan).

'What is their cunning plan?'  I wondered as I watched them look at their map and then look at my house.  They turned to consult each other and quickly (perhaps they had seen me?) did the most complicated 38 point turn possible, so as to avoid coming into our drive.  This was particularly tricky for them given the volume of mud in the surrounding fields, and our unforgiving cattle grid.  But they soldiered on and I watched, confused.  I noted there were 3 large letters on the side of the van which was greenish, but without my glasses on I couldn't see for sure and I couldn't run and get my glasses as I might have missed something essential.

They looked completely dodgy.  Why didn't they come into the drive and turn around normally?  Why were they wearing balaclavas?  Why were they pulling a farm trailor (empty).  My nearest neighbour is about 300m away and beyond that probably about 1km.  So, despite it being middle of the day, my heart rate jumped and I dialed my neighbours number.  She confirmed that there had been a spate of farm burglaries recently and agreed that it was highly suspicious that they were towing a trailor.  I didn't hesitate, I threw the phone down and went online to check the number for the local police.  The website steered viewers to 999.  That's odd, I thought, this hardly counts as an emergency but there we go (in my paranoid exhausted state I hadn't read the site properly - it basically said ONLY for emergencies (duh) call 999).  As my call connected I felt a jolt of civic pride that I was going to play a part in catching the farm-robbers.

The call handler on the other hand, was not impressed.

"So" she said  "you are calling to report a suspicious looking green van which is towing a trailer, but which hasn't actually entered your property"

"Yes!" I replied, pleased that she had got the detail correct first time

"And now that van has gone?" she continued.

"Yes!" I cried, triumphant that I'd obviously scared them off.

"So, a green van towing a trailor didn't come into your  property and has now left.  That doesn't really count as an emergency"

"Ah" I started, now feeling a bit uncomfortable.  "But the men were wearing balaclavas"

"Are you sure?" she asked

"Well, I don't have my glasses on, but they were definitely wearing hats.  Black ones"

"Ok, so there has been a green van towing a trailor, driven by 3 men wearing black hats, and you are calling 999"

"Look, I was scared - I felt threatened."

"Ok madam, we will call the police units and share the news and we will stop the vehicle if it passes"

"Well, thank you" I snorted, and hung up.  For goodness sakes, fat lot of good the police are, I thought.

About 4 minutes after I had reported the sinister occurrence to the police, Helen, my neighbour called back.  "Alice" she said.  "I've just seen the van!"

"Aha"  thought - she's got evidence too!

"And, it's just the Scottish and Southern Energy van, the guys are doing maintenance on the lines here"

"Are you sure?"  I asked, feeling mortified, my very posture shrinking into a defeated pathetic form.

"Absolutely sure, nothing to worry about" and she hung up.

So, there we go - I am guilty of calling 999 to report a perfectly respectable energy company's van doing a u-turn outside my property.  Nice one Strut dog.