It’s Friday afternoon and I'm on my way home from running errands, basking in the sunshine that can feel warm if you’re out of the wind. Spring is coming, but I can still see my breath.
Iturn the corner onto my street and notice two police cars. Idly, I wonder what's happening – there’s two of ‘em and one’s parked slightly askew as if the driver was in a hurry and that usually means something’s happening. However, they're down at the end of the building by the cleaner’s, so I assume it's got nothing to do with the residential tenants of the building and motor on. Get into the lobby, have a chat with a tenant, we go up the elevator, he gets off on his floor, I get off on mine, back out of the elevator and turn, preparing to open the door of my apartment.
And stop. And gawk at the four strapping police officers standing in a semicircle in front of my door.
"Can I help you?" I ask, adding a nervous joke, "I didn't do anything, I swear" (why are you always compelled to say that in front of cops?).
They look at me with bemused expressions and one of them asks if I know Jamaal somethingorother.
"No," I say, "I don't think so, but I'm sort of bad with names..." They exchange meaningful looks.
Then inform me they were given the wrong address and depart. Leaving me laughing and with my jaw on the floor, wondering what that was about.
It's official: I look innocent.