Carol’s Column

Home alone at night can be an alarming experience

Recently we were burgled. Nothing spectacular really, they just took the usual. Everything. The TV, video, CD player, curtains, all our clothes, three frozen chickens, bedding, towels, shoes and so on.

They left crushed stompies and helped themselves to red wine, neglecting to wash the glasses.

Fortunately, we were insured, so made a claim and after the usual battle, were eventually paid a percentage of our loss. To ensure we remained insured, we were instructed to have an electronic security system installed. And immediately.

The cost of such a system was considerably more than I paid for my small car a few years ago. In fact, it was almost the original price of the house.

Our house was built in 1907 and is what estate agents refer to as characterful. Part of the character includes solid half-metre outer walls and thick wooden floors of original Oregon pine shipped all the way from the USA.

“In the old days, they built houses to last,” said Gerald, the alarmist from the security company as he painstakingly drilled through the wall.

Ja, no, well fine. Usually it takes a day to install an electronic alarm system.

Ours took two weeks and the use of a jack-hammer, but the end result was quite spectacular. A sort of one-family sound and light.

Flashing red eyes in every room, beams all over the show, an assortment of detectors and vibrators – as in air movement. Finally, the control board, not an uncomplicated piece of equipment, was placed in a strategic position.

We were taught to activate the system. My husband clicked immediately. I took a little longer. “Most people learn how this operates in an hour,” said Gerald despairingly a month later.

Gerald is not aware that in South Africa there are over 10-million people unable to tune their TVs. I used to be one of them. That was in the days when we still owned a TV.

Among the sapphires of information imparted by Gerald were explicit instructions on how to de-activate the alarm room by room. He also explained how, if I was under siege and had a gun aimed at my head, I could cunningly pretend to de-activate the alarm while secretly alerting the company.

“What happens if they shoot me?” I asked.

“Then you’re dead,” he observed perceptively I thought.

My husband flew to Cape Town on business leaving me alone but alarmed. On the first night I left my bed and almost expired when a piercing siren blasted me into the toilet. The phone rang two seconds later.

“Hello,” I said. One tries to be pleasant even at 4am. You never know, it could be Mel Gibson.

Silence followed. I replaced the receiver. The phone rang again.

“Shit! I can’t remember the password!” I exclaimed. It was late, you understand.

“No, that is not the password,” said a somewhat disinterested voice.

“Damn!”

“No, that is not right either,” he said.

It seemed none of the four-letter words I produced were suitable because seven minutes later the front-door bell rang. Outside stood two formidable armed ready-response men. They looked threatening.

“Everything’s fine, I live here, I went to the toilet,” I yelled.

“Prove it,” they said.

“Do you really think I’d be standing here in the middle of the night in a Snoopy T-shirt if I was burgling this house?” I snarled.

They obviously did, but eventually, they left after I’d given my name, the names of my husband, children, dogs, cat, and date of birth.

This electronic alarm system is as sensitive as the twitch of a goldfish’s gill. A wandering cat causes cacophony and a breeze whispering across the sill is havoc.

My husband phoned. “Is everything all right?” he asked. Distance breeds solicitude.

“I cannot live like this, followed by a blinking red eye and imprisoned by a beam. This house is not big enough for me and the alarm,” I complained. “One of us has to go.”

“Right,” he said. “Just remember to switch it on before you shut the door.”

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