You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room, eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next.
First up – they obviously brought their own cake, so they must have known it would be slim pickings here, cake-wise.
Secondly, how did they get in without breaking the door? There are three possibilities:
1. They climbed up to the third floor and hopped over the balcony. Tricky with cake.
2. Gil (friend with key) or Mark (strata manager, also with key) let them in. But they wouldn’t without telling me. Have I missed something? (checks phone.)
3. They found my spare key. Highly improbable when that key doesn’t open the front door, but another door leading to a process for finding my key. (It’s OK, you’re not meant to understand, that’s the point.)
All of which goes through my mind in a flash while I consider my options.
It’s an interesting proposition, when you think about it, because unless they were clearly thuggy (and even then, books-and-covers and all), I doubt if my first instinct would be girly screams (I’m no longer a girl, and never was a girly one) and a quick dash down the stairs and up the road to the cop shop. I’d be too intrigued. And probably trapped by the manners inculcated by my mother, and my usual tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt.
And you’d have to assume, given the difficulties of getting in, that they were there for a reason. I’d want to know what it was. If I find out, I’ll pass it on…