So the next day I’ve updated my facebook page about what happened. I’m encouraged by friends to report it. I can’t be bothered. I just want to put it behind me. But what if he’s a repeat offender? I feel guilt about him doing it to someone else. Replaying the whole thing over and over again and am grateful for a few things.
1) I was sober
2) My music was on low
I do however think that in future I need to have on flat shoes and carry a gun in my hands. That’s just me and I’m thinking the flats will have to suffice. Heels do not make for a quick get away.
Eventually I put in an online report and go back to bed. I’ve been in and out of slumber since I got in. I wait for Fubby to call but he bbms his emotions and leaves my friends to comfort me. This upsets me even more. Men don’t handle these things well I’m told. Try being made to feel unsafe in your own city.
15 minutes later the police call. They butcher my African name and then apologise for doing so. Then they go into their 1 day of Victim support training. “first of all are you ok?” I go through the motions and they say that due to the nature of the crime I have to be seen and a full statement taken. Great. I’m given two time slots. 9.30 in the morning or 8.30 at night. Hmmmm, lose an evening? I choose the morning.
The copper arrives and he’s a young’un. He does his thing and then looks at me sternly and says “I’m sorry but we have to ask, had you been drinking?” I explain about the prosecco and he asks me what’s prosecco
Now I know I didn’t know what Lambrini was but he didn’t know what prosecco was? What kind of induction do they give these young police men? I explain and he gets it. He rings in and they have to take my clothes for DNA testing. I explain to him that this is my favourite dress and my one winter coat. He explains that I may not see them for a while.
This is why I didn’t want to report it. I’m starting to feel like I’m penalised for being the victim. It’s the system I know but, seriously I just wanted it reporting in case someone else was hurt that night or any other time.
Watching as he bags up my clothes I tell him the dress is fuchsia. He writes down red. He says when he gets back later he won’t remember what fuchsia is. Ok so this is ok? He’s from Kent. He’s a man. I get over it and send a silent kiss goodbye from me and Maxine my budda belly to my Traffic people dress.
Eventually 2 hours later and it’s over. I crawl back under the covers and sleep. I sleep a lot this week. In fact I feel another nap coming on. One last blog and …….zzzzzZZZZ.