But I wasn't really in the mood for typing it up, because I left the class to find that in the two hours I'd spent in the church hall practising blocking punches with one hand behind my back (which I'm sure will come in terribly useful some day), some FUCKING CUNT had STOLEN MY SCOOTER.
Entirely my own fault. I arrived at the class and realised I'd forgotten my money. Dashed in to tell the instructor I would have to go home and get it and be late, he said I could pay him next week, I fully intended to go back outside and put the lock through the back wheel but got distracted.
I do not hold out much hope of ever seeing Hershey again. It's not the world's most desirable vehicle, being three years old and metallic brown, but it'll do for an evening of helmetless joyriding round the park followed by torching it and throwing it in the river. I'd filled the tank that morning too.
Reported it to the police, more for insurance purposes than in any expectation of help. I know that the police will not be combing the area for clues, taking DNA samples from likely suspects or blockading the A2. They will write it down in their Big Book Of Crime Statistics and forget it. If I'm really lucky, they might offer me counselling.
How do I know all this? Well, about two years ago my last scooter got pinched. Acting on a tipoff from the desk sergeant (dog-walking couple report orange scooter in river), I found the damn thing myself (trashed and burned beyond repair), told the police where it was three times, even drawing them a little map, and they still couldn't find it.
So I get my second lesson in Why We Always Put The Chain Lock On, Even If We'll Only Be Gone A Minute And It's A Quiet Suburban Street On A Weekday Evening. Will I ever learn?
And don't think from my flippant tone that I didn't bawl my eyes out, either.