In the US, we have this sense that we can be independent and protect ourselves, make our own fate.  I appreciate that in a lot of ways, even though it is ultimately just an illusion. I don’t like the sense that I get here in England that you get broken into, they can’t catch the criminal, and that’s just the way it is. I want to believe that I’m safe, even if I’m not. ‘I have a terrible need for religion,’ van Gogh said. Yes, me too: I want to believe in safety, that I can protect my family.

I wrote a short story about this when I was an undergraduate about a guy who goes out and buys a gun after his wife is mugged. It was all about how exposed we all are and how the things we do to protect ourselves only end up making us more distant. It was a distinctly American short story.

I was trying to use gender neutral terms to talk about ‘the burglar’ but from the size of the boot prints, I think we can say ‘he’ without any problem. The burglar. I’m so curious about him: what was he looking for? What does he need money for? Why our house?

I’m not angry with you, burglar. I mean, I am, but I’m more curious than angry. Why did you go through the medicine? Didn’t you see the lock box? Do you think about me cleaning up after you? Do you wonder about the people whose stuff your dumping on the ground? My wife, my daughters, and you have opened my wardrobe drawer. It’s strangely intimate, don’t you think? Or do you never think about that? You trespassed every social rule that I can imagine: perhaps I’m just jealous. You do what you want. Or do you leave terrified that you’ll be caught? I imagine you do. I imagine that all of this is stressful for you.

Perhaps in a different world, in a different context, I would have just given you money. I would have felt sympathy for you instead of imagining that I, like Batman, would catch you and make you regret having ever set foot in my house. Don’t worry: that version of me only exists in my mind. I’m not Batman. I’m a student, sitting at my desk, terrified as I call the police. I waited for my wife to appear below my building and wondered, Has my luck finally run out?

I will be fine, burglar, don’t worry about me. You probably won’t be though. And I’m sorry for that; I wish it was different.

Leave it to me to over analyse even this. I had to walk to work this morning because I left my bike last night in the rush to get out. I thought to myself, This gives me something to write about. What other times have I been stolen from? I haven’t, I don’t think. Technically, I still haven’t.

As we waited for the police yesterday, I said outloud what I had been thinking since Yoko called: This wouldn’t happen in Japan. It’s just an observation. You’re much more likely to kill yourself in Japan than be killed by someone else. This wouldn’t happen in Japan, and I have brought this entry back to where I began, the illusion of security. Of course this would happen in Japan. There is nowhere you can stand behind a thick enough door, at least not at my pay grade. So best to clean up the boot marks, lock the doors, and carry on. I have the best worst luck of anyone I know.

But I have to say: muddy bootprints from a stranger in your daughter’s bedroom is not a good feeling. When Yoko called me at work, she had just come home to find it and I told her to come to the school immediately, I called the police, and then I waited for the longest ten minutes ever. The police have been great though, our landlord has been great, everything is put away now. It’s like it never happened. Sort of.