The Peace of Mind “When we were young,” my sweetheart lies, “we left our front doors unlocked.”


“The world’s not like that any more.” The salesman nods his shaved head sagely and jangles his bling. His gold teeth flash as he reminds us of the murderers, robbers and rapists who daily prowl our neighbourhoods, pursuing opportunities to gratify their psychotic lusts.


How does he know? I ask myself. And just how does he afford all that jewellery on a shop salary? But then he reveals his price, and I know. “Do you know what it’s like to be robbed?” he asks.


“Oh, yes,” I reply. I ask if he has anything cheaper, which he admits he has, but explains how they’re really not worth the money they charge for them. No, no, if we’re to have a house alarm, it must – just has to be – this one.


Outside, my car alarm goes off. My wife ignores it. So do I. And everyone else in the shop and the street outside. In fact, somebody could be hot-wiring it right at this very moment, and nobody will take a blind bit of notice. Including the salesman who’s trying to persuade me of the importance of an alarm system.


But then comes the “peace of mind” bit which, apparently, is more important than feeding one’s family. “Think of the peace of mind,” says the salesman. Ah yes, I may have to declare bankruptcy and have all my possessions taken by the bailiffs, but at least I can be sure they won’t be taken by burglars.


“Yes, think of your children,” my wife barks. Whose side is she on? I’m tempted to remind her we made solemn vows before God. But she’s got that gleam in her eye, and I realize there really is at least one person in this world from whom only this alarm can protect me. I whimper and surrender my Mastercard. Nobody tells me whether the salesman will spend his share on an eleventh ring, or just another necklace.


Only we find when it’s installed, that the alarm rarely – in fact, never – actually goes off when we’re about to be butchered. It goes off whenever there’s a strong wind, whenever there’s a thunderstorm, whenever my son’s football bounces off the wall, whenever the washing machine enters its Wagnerian spin cycle. Or whenever there’s


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