After I let him out of the building and saw him walk away (although ’tis true I didn’t see him leave the complex) I thought I’d trot down to the North parking garage and make sure he wasn’t camped out in there, having somehow gotten in. He was not, and it’s probably a good thing, because what could I have done about it, really? Just more razorwire and the ladder there undisturbed.

We’ve really got to start locking up these ladders somewhere. Like, for realz.

And then I got back to my apartment and I thought I’d call the cops, and so I did.

So, I was saying that I was at first regretting that I did all that dealing with the cops wearing my very attractive eyelet night shirt and my much less superfantastic XL plaid flannel pj pants, but on second thought it’s better this way, since I haven’t actually done my legs.

Where was I?

Right, no idea how he got out there. The noises. The eyebrow-cocking. The down-from-the-ladder climbing. He walked into the lobby as I held the door and paused. He saw me standing there, watching him and pulling the door closed as fast as its hydraulics would let me and he went out the front door into the Co-op mall, headed for the North gate. I didn’t see him get there, just made sure the door closed solidly behind him. He can’t get back in that door without me hearing it, nor use the elevator without the same.

It’s at P. I have no key for P, dying as I am to get down there.

I’m really quite disappointed the cops haven’t come back. It’s been a half-hour. I guess they’re gone, sigh.

It really was a nice dog, and so very excited to be working. She was like a kid at Christmas, and the cop, all six foot quite-a-lot of him, had difficulty restraining her. Occasionally he said something sharp to her, but in a soft enough tone that you could tell he was all too fond of his partner and would love to give her a hug to calm her down if only the dignity of the uniform allowed it, which it did not.

So, he didn’t come down by rope.

He didn’t climb up, neither. The public patio off the lobby is a good 15′ above the ground. The South side parking garage ends under it. There is a concrete wall with spaces for windows all along the back of the parking garage, but it’s topped with razor wire the entire way, and the patio is 5′ above that. Razor wire is

Had to pause there. Snape’s big confrontation scene after the car crash. Oooooh, Snape.

I think I’ll do a bellydancing workout before I go to bed tonight/tomorrowmorning.

Where was I? and does anyone on Earth say that as often as I do?

So, it seems he didn’t climb up. He certainly didn’t come from my apartment (razorwire on the 8′ wall in between anyway). And I’d be willing to bet he didn’t come from the apartment of the Chinese family on the other side: that little dog of theirs would have woken up the entire city with his pipsqueak baying.

So he apparated, obviously.

Maybe he went out to grab the ladder, which you could see from the lobby, leaning up against the wall, and then realized he was locked out. Because there’s no way to open that door from the outside; I got stuck out there once myself, when I was coming home from a party and went out to look at the full moon. I spent a solid hour out there trying to get over the wall and the razorwire to my patio without shredding my cocktail dress or my good coat.

Perhaps I’m overconfident, but my patio door is still not locked. It’s so warped someone could just pick it up off the runners anyway.

Let’s be clear about ONE thing at least. I may have opened the door to the public patio and arched an eyebrow at him, to which he climbed down off the ladder and said “uh, I just stepped out for a smoke and the door locked on me,” and then watched him, eyebrow still cocked

You know, I was thinking it’s too bad I was wearing my baggy, size XL plaid flannel pj pants that my grandmother gave me, because although they are lovely well quite frankly, dowdy, but full of pretty colours, cosy, and remind me fondly of my grandmother,

Okay, I’ve given up on sleep any time soon and put HP and the C of S on. They’ve just come for him.

Hey, maybe he got onto the patio from a flying car? If someone dropped him off, that would totally account for it. If they had a new muffler.

So, I can see he didn’t come down from the roof on a rope. Neither to the upstairs patio nor to the lobby patio. The apartment building is four stories, but the bottom is sort of zigguratted out on this side, with the apartments on floor 2 sprawling away from the main part of the building a good 15 feet at the back. Floor 1 pokes out 15 or 20 feet beyond this, so my apartment is spacious and gifted with a patio/balcony of about 15’x25′.

The last time someone successfully broke into the building, they got into the parking garage, then climbed up the unused incinerator chute to the roof (quite a feat!) and rapelled down. Rappeled? Whatever. Then he got in the apartment above mine, which he ransacked. Hence my own trips out to the patio to “rope-peep.”

Nope, it wasn’t a rope, unless he had it on a hook and took it with him. Hey, he had a backpack. Maybe it was in there.

I really WAS planning on being in bed a half-hour ago. No, seriously.

And oooooh, I just noticed that, while the top button of my sweet-looking nightshirt is obediently fastened, the middle one, down by my spectacular boobage, has been open the whole time. Must go check out view in mirror, brb…

For those just tuning in, this is what liveblogging a break-in looks like. It’s stream of consciousness, only you’re in my consciousness. Welcome.