AFP Capers

We moved in to our new house here in January. A few weeks later an AFP officer arrived at the door looking for a bloke. We’d received a letter misaddressed to the fellow, but otherwise had no knowledge of his existence. No worries, off he goes, saying he’ll make a note on the file. I’ve a guilty disposition around cops and it took a little while for the old pumper to return to normal.

A few weeks later, a different AFP officer arrives looking for the same bloke. We already told you guys he doesn’t live here we say. No worries says he, he’ll make a note of it on the file. Off he goes and some time later I’m back down to 70 bpm.

AFP officers three and four came in successive months. Funny, but despite the uniform they all look like thuggish petty crims. By number four paranoia was really kicking in. Had they got wind of my plans to assassinate Karl Stefanovic? Or was it, I wondered (my unflappable cynical self rekindling), merely a case of pedestrian administrative blundering? Did each grunt go back to the office at the end of the day and simply forget to update the file? Is this the sort of thing the cops are up to all day long? When do they find time for dealing, protection and capsicumming drunks? Next time they come I’m considering telling them I found out the bloke lives at the house of someone I hate, besides Stefanovic.

Officer five came last night, with a torch, uninvited, right into the back yard and knocked on the door of the Plotting Room. Fortunately he didn’t catch a whiff of the plot. Same story. Same delivery. This time something new. If he couldn’t provide the courts with an alternative address, they would keep issuing the same summons until the bloke turns up some other way. Awesome. It’s as good to know that our cops are wasting their time on such ludicrous endeavours as it is to expect them to turn up to your door every month or so. Does wonders for our reputation amongst the local hoods I’m sure.

Strangely, yesterday we had another, unrelated, visit from the AFP. Or was it? They pulled over a battered commodore right outside, stripped its plates, then drove off, leaving it sitting on our front lawn (we have no footpath/nature strip). Does that mean it’s ours now? I considered putting a for sale sign on it. Or writing on it in big white letters?

Then I started thinking. Bad thoughts. Have they established a surveillance point? Is there a video camera hidden somewhere on the car recording all the suspicious goings on in the Plotting Room? Are they reading my brainwaves? Are we being fed human flesh in sausage rolls? Once you get a bit paranoid it’s hard to stop. And if certain of my, ahem, friends in the, ahem, KSDTD are reading this looking for a sign, ‘the K-bird has delayed flying south till the hot spell is over’ should suffice.

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