A Good Honest Burglar

I am not sure how many readers will know what burglary is. In case anyone does not it was, in English Law at the time of this incident, it was the act of breaking into a dwelling-house by night with intent to commit a felony. In short it was usually prosecuted where there was breaking and entering into a house to steal something at night. The term 'burglary' does not appear in Scots law. It is probably understood in most countries inheriting the English Legal System.

I was walking into the Stipendiary Magistrates Court in Liverpool back in the early '60s  with a police sergeant for a case about which I remember absolutely nothing.

On the way into the courtroom we bumped into a man of completely forgettable stature and demeanour ie he would not be noticed in a crowd of three. I will refer to him as Fred. The conversation between the Sergeant and the Accused (for that was what he turned out to be) went like this:

S: What are you here for Fred?

F: The ??? job in Childwall.

S: Did you do it?

F: What do you think?

S: Can we prove it?

F: Nah. Don't think so.

S: Good luck.

In my inexperienced naive youthfulness this exchange was an eyeopener of major proportions.

I asked the Sergeant what all that was about? 

"Fred is one of the good, honest old fashioned burglars. Breaks in cleanly. Finds what he wants without creating any mess and leaves. If we can prove it he accepts the punishment and if not he's on a winner." He then went on to describe what he thought about the sort of burglar the police were now concentrating on who were the scum of the earth who broke in and wrecked the house in the process of looking for anything they could sell. The difference was that for Fred and his ilk it was his trade and he was proud of it. With a bit of luck it might be days or weeks before anyone realised something was missing.

Thank you Ursula for the idea you gave me for this recollection in your comment on my last post.

Only On Lewis

could you see this:

When I came to live in Lewis in 1975 leaving the beautiful Cheshire village of Lymm and my excellent job in the Manchester satellite of Trafford (and with a membership of the Lancashire County Cricket Club which was right opposite my office), never did I for one moment think that the Outer Hebrides would end up being where not only my body but also my heart would end up. After all I only intended to come for two years.

Back in the 70s no one locked doors or took ignition keys out of cars. Theft of something from a private individual was a rarity. Okay it's true that occasionally sheep went missing from the common grazing and were 'found' in another township. Sometimes a car left in Stornoway's main car park in the town centre would disappear on a Friday or Saturday night when someone needed to get home.  I recall one chap who regularly took a car and parked it outside his house. 

It was an interesting peculiarity of the law that it was very hard to prove the theft of a motor car. Theft involves an intention permanently to deprive someone of something. A person who 'stole' a car would always argue that it would have been returned the next morning. So the only thing actually stolen was a few bobs worth of petrol which was hardly worth a prosecution. Of course all that's changed now and the loophole has been closed.

However theft of personal property is still relatively rare.  Where else could you leave a parcel for collection by the Royal Mail propped up against the township post box?

Compressed Reconstituted Meat

Well there was no way I was going to use the 'S' word was there? That would really get the bot[toms]s going wild. So instead of the 'S' word I'm going to use CRM. I was going to use 'corned beef' but thought that was just a bit too silly even for me.

During the last couple of weeks I've had 98 CRMs posted to my blog. That doesn't count the odd ones that have been deleted when I've seen it on my phone first. Nor does it include the dozens and dozens which I have deleted in my emails because I have ticked the 'Notify me' box in the comments section of other blogs. I always click it because I like to know what going on. I know some people don't because you get a lot of emails and as someone once said to me 'Once I have commented on a post it's mental history. I never go back to that post'. I do and I know a lot of those who read the blogs I read do as well.

I have always had comment moderation activated for posts over 14 days old. That is mainly so that I could make sure that I don't miss comments made a lot later than the post. Nowadays I don't usually post more than once a week. I have noticed that most users of CRM and their bot[toms]s do not usually post to the current post. So to ensure that you, dear reader, don't also get inundated with CRM I have now reduced that. Not many genuine commenters will be inconvenienced but, hopefully, you and I will be spared the majority of the CRMs actually appearing (other than in the Blogger interface comments section).

On a happier note it's this time of year again. I've posted about the Damselflies before on several occasions with much better pictures, so I'll just leave this as a reminder.

The garden is doing exceptionally well at the moment because my social life was curtailed by lockdown. I rather thought that these orange lilies would bring a bit of cheer to the post too. 

A Face

Rachel recently re-posted some art from the Odessa Museum of Modern Art in the Ukraine. One of the works was this portrait:

On several occasions I have posted this picture by David Gauld which hangs in the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery in Glasgow.

My comment on Rachel's blog was to the effect that I could stand in front of it for a long time. There is so much in those eyes staring at nothing and that expression - such loneliness they seem to have gone beyond pain. It occurred to me that there is a great similarity in the expression in the two painting yet I've never felt pain in Gauld's portrait before. Now I'm not so sure.