Raid.

It was a last minute decision that felt right. Work didn’t need me for the following week and Sarah had the week off. A handful of internet keyboard strokes later and we were going on our summer holidays.

Frantic packing, reorganisation of tasks and madness ensued over the next twelve hours. Family or friends weren’t informed – we didn’t have time. Prioritising the important took its toll as neither of us really slept. Excitement and the potential of forgetting something blindingly obvious played a big part.

Living close to a big airport has benefits – especially when you’re taking a taxi for an early morning flight. You can rise, eat breakfast and then think about ringing for a cab. They’re with you fairly expediently.

The weather outside was dreadful – damp, dank and dark. I’m not sure if the Irish winter weather influenced my spontaneous decision the previous night – but both of us were giggling with excitement since we rose from our king sized bed.

As I closed the front door to our three bedroomed semi-detached home, the taxi beeped its horn rather loudly and impatiently. I don’t think the driver realised that both of us were already outside. I cursed him under my breath, fearing what my neighbours might think of such inconsideration.

The drizzle was causing havoc with Sarah’s straightened hair, so I ushered her into the car while I took care of the bags. He wasn’t getting out of the car to assist. I fumbled around in the dark, trying to locate the release for the boot of the twelve year old grey Japanese import. After almost ten seconds of getting soaked and feeling about for a lock, I heard a manual release unlock from inside the car.

Having placed the two wheelie bags in the boot, I took my rain relief in the front passenger seat. The first thing that greeted me were smart comments.

“Nice of you to join myself and this lovely lady! I hope that you’re not dripping all over my good leather!”

Not being in my usual negative morning humour, I ignored the barb and asked him to drive us to Terminal 2 in Dublin Airport. I could tell that Sarah, without her saying anything, didn’t like our driver. I could always tell by glancing at her facial expressions – she couldn’t hide contempt.

Within one minute, as the freshness of the air the rain brought into the car dissipated, I smelled old musty leather. It wasn’t the seats that we sat upon that stank, but that of the black leather jacket that our driver wore.

It was lived in. I’m not sure if he ever took it off. It had a pungent tinge of stale cigarettes, bad body odour and most importantly, alcohol. It was faint, but I was certain that it was whiskey of some sort. That smell had always stuck with me as my grandfather had a certain fondness for Powers Gold Label.

Having his picture in front of me on the dashboard, I noticed that he had a fine head of hair for a sixty-eight year old man. Something akin to Elvis with the hair slicked back and long, thick salt and pepper sideburns. Except this morning, his hair didn’t look as neatly coiffed as his photo. It was greasier and a bit matted near the base of his mullet. The cloth headrest of his seat told a similar story.

Neither myself nor Sarah entered easily into conversation with our driver, apart from the odd grunt or “yeah”. His negativity was eating fast into our early morning holiday buzz.

My wife is not a patient lady, especially when she’s confronted with ignorance or racism. On this five minute taxi ride, she encountered both. So she let fly with a volley of well informed opinions, telling him that we got a great deal online for a week in the Canary Islands. I smiled to myself as the last couple of minutes to the airport terminal were made in silence.

The fare came to E10.50 and I paid him exactly that. He wasn’t making any moves to help with the bags either – not that I expected it. Sarah was fuming and also a little elated with herself for shutting an ignorant man up.

Trying our best to forget about the ride into the airport, we proceeded into the building to self-check in. As we dropped our bags to the floor, Sarah realised it before I did. She had placed the passports on the table in the hallway – she had reminded me not to forget them.

We had almost an hour and twenty minutes before the flight was due to leave. That was another benefit of living close to an airport – if this type of thing happens, you have a chance to rectify the situation. If you live an hour away, forget about it.

I ran outside the terminal and jumped into the first available taxi. This taxi was modern and smelled fresh in comparison to our previous experience. The driver understood our predicament and drove swiftly in the light morning traffic. He was ultra professional and helpful, stating that he had done the exact same thing only a couple of years ago.

He pulled into our estate and I already had my front door keys in hand. I asked him to turn the car around as I knew where the passports were and would be out within a matter of seconds.

I saw a car similar to the first taxi two doors down, parked on the kerb with its wheels on the grass verge. It was pointed toward the exit of the estate. Its lights were off.

Running up to our front door I noticed that the kitchen light was on at the back of the house. Thinking that Sarah might have left it on by mistake, I quickly disregarded it.

Unlocking the lower front door lock, I saw the shape of the passports on the hall table through the stained glass. I took two quick seconds to step inside the threshold and grab them in my right hand. As I turned to exit, an inherent instinct told me to look up.

I looked toward the kitchen. The sliver of light emanating from the crack in the door revealed the briefest glimpse of a passing man.

With a matted mullet.

He was rifling through the drawers in the kitchen, upturning them onto the floor.

I hadn’t spooked him by opening the door. Retreating outside and closing the door quietly, I took out my phone. I rang the Police directly in Swords, giving them his name and taxi plate – of his piece of shit car.

I had the luxury of watching the Police enter my home, run upstairs and haul his opinionated ass off into custody. I made sure he didn’t spot me – I didn’t want him coming back for more knowing that I’d reported the incident.

The Police unofficially told me that the reason he had broken in was the fact I didn’t bother to tip him.

He had seen how quickly I had exited my front door in the rain and saw that I mistakenly, hadn’t set the alarm. He broke in by slipping through the side gate and kicking in the glass of our back door.

I missed my flight but caught a later one out that afternoon. I had to arrange for an emergency window fitting and made sure I set my alarm before leaving.

An idiot like this wasn’t going to ruin our last minute holiday buzz.