Carol’s Column

It’s time to add the word ‘perp’ to your lexicon

The huge metal gate crashed shut behind me. I walked slowly forward along the brick walk and the solid wooden gate swung open. I entered and it shut blocking out the light.

I unlocked a connecting door and stepped into a large room with barred windows. The weak sun pushed through the impregnable bars creating a stern grid pattern on the opposite wall. The effect was severe and depressing.

Through the upper edge of the window, I saw a rock pigeon fly past. The leaves of a spindly tree sighed against the outer bars. The high concrete boundary wall was topped with tennis court wire fencing upon which grew variegated creepers.

From a distance it looked attractive until you approached the fence and noticed the razor wire intertwined.

I was in a prison. One of my own making.

Well, to be more accurate, one insisted upon by our insurers. After the third break-in attempt when unwelcome guests liberated our personal possessions including a silver-framed picture of my scowling mother-in-law, for which I was not ungrateful, we were told we had to jack up our security.

The alarm system we had installed two burglaries ago was inadequate we were told, it definitely needed high-tech upgrading.

Mr High-Tech came personally to set the thing up which was the least he could do considering the price of this security system was costing twice as much as the down payment on the house.

He revamped the alarm so that the entire establishment had to be shut tight before the alarm could be activated.

It was possible to bypass the bedrooms and leave windows open in order to breathe fresh air but he suggested it would be better to lock them.

"You never know what might climb into your window," he growled.

He advised us on arrival to approach the security gate with care checking there were no suspicious people in the vicinity.

"Check for other cars and if you see one you do not recognise, just drive away," he advised. "And always keep panic buttons on you."

"Once inside," he said, "immediately close the gate behind you. Only then open the garage door keeping your panic button handy. Get into the garage as quickly as possible."

Before we went upstairs to bed, we had to ensure all empty rooms were locked to make it difficult should somebody manage to climb over the razorwired wall, break through the bars, foil the electronic alarm and get into the house.

"A locked door will give the perp one more problem," he said.

Finally: "Remember to sleep with your gun beside you," he said.

"We don't own a gun," I snapped.

"You should," he retorted.

And so here we are in this ordinary little suburb in our small house which is more secure than Fort Knox.

What does this mean? It means I have arrested my husband three times because without my contact lens he looked like a suspicious lurking perp.

It means it takes me 15 minutes to gain entrance to my own home and at least half an hour to lock, alarm and check everything before I go to sleep.

I want to live in a house without alarms, locks, walls and bars. In other words,

I want to live freely in a lawful society.

Meanwhile, please excuse me as I try to restore my breath which departed my body in shock when the ghoulish shrieking of the alarm was set off because I dared to creep down to the kitchen for a midnight nibble.

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