No one is harder than Hackney

Yesterday I came home from work to find (yet again) representatives from the law enforcement occupying the entrance to my building. On this occasion it wasn’t arson or a shooting investigation like it usually is. My downstairs neighbour got stabbed, and judging from the blood splattered everywhere it could have been very, very serious (is there no such things a non-serious stabbing?). A quick word with one of the PCs established the fact that my downstairs neighbour had survived the attack, and that she was stable.

After giving my details I was carefully escorted to my flat by said PC in order to avoid me walking all over the evidence. My flatmate was already in. I was told we would have to stay in the flat for a while until the forensics team had finished, so we cracked open the rum and vodka and started playing poker. We even had a sneaky joint or two, giggling like school kids having a crafty fag behind the bike shed, aware that ten police officers were milling about just outside our flat for hours.

Business as usual.

I thought I’d be a bit more concerned, or shaken even, by the events. But apart from sympathy for my neighbour (no one deserves to get stabbed, do they?), I couldn’t really give a toss. I thought I would, and I probably should, but I don’t.

At the end of the day, no one is harder than Hackney.