I wrote a substantial post about cars yesterday, but the Cat crashed and it vanished. C'est la vie.

Although I lived in downest downtown Ottawa for so long that putting away and locking up any and all useful things became second nature, my car was burgled twice, once in a shopping centre parking lot (bag of maps stolen) and once when parked overnight on the driveway in front of the house (radio stolen). It never ceased to amaze me that a burglar would go for an ancient VW Diesel, that most unstealable of cars, and surely nothing of value would be found in a 16-year-old car, but there you go.

When Himself was finally able to tear himself loose from his last court-martial client and come to Stratford to see the house I had bought, we found the seller in a state of agitation awaiting the cops, whom she had called because she found her car broken open and minus a tool kit anmd a substantial stash of parking change. The car, of course, was normally parked on the driveway in front of the garage door. Clearly, our leafy corner of idyllic Stratford shares at least one threat with grungy old Ottawa: opportunistic burglars. The very first thing I did on taking possession was to call a locksmith.