For the past 48 hours, my only house guests have been members of the New South Wales police force.

No, didn’t throw a wild po po party and I haven’t drop-kicked a living being across the room in a public place and the law has finally caught up with me (and by living being, I mean animal, because I don’t think the police would get involved if I kicked a mushroom – although if it was an oversized fungi, it would probably be just as satisfying), but I had to make statement.

The last time I made a statement to police I was working at a fast food restaurant and had just refused a purchase of the most half-arsed criminal in the world after he produced a counterfeit $50 note that looked like it was made using Microsoft Paint. I had to spell my full name to the officers, and stumbled on my middle name (according to the extensive and, until now, useless testing in Years 3 to 5, I’m a kinetic and visual learner, so spelling out loud has never been a strong point of mine). As a fast food worker who couldn’t spell her middle name, I didn’t make a great impression.

Which was perhaps one of the reasons I wasn’t stoked to find my back windscreen shattered to a thousand pieces, much like my reasonably respectable reputation after I took to the mic at karaoke night at my local bowls club during one of my final nights in town (I wrote an apology Letter to the Editor on my last day working at that paper). But then, there are many reasons to be the opposite of happy when discovering your back seat is full of glass.

The fact that you don’t currently own a vacuum cleaner to safely remove said shards, those dark rain clouds that are building up, that now you definitely won’t make it to Civic Video before closing time, the bare minimum level of insurance you have. The List of Superfunhappytimes is lengthy and surprisingly contradictory to its name.

Having just transferred my registration to another state and being faced with the realities of being a car owner I have felt remarkably shielded from for most of my adult life, I was contemplating upping my insurance. Just 12 hours beforehand, I was debating whether I should upgrade said monetary coverage on my vehicle, particularly noting the windshield cover. As I drifted off to the sleep, with the vision of purchasing insurance after my next paycheck floating over my head, irony was looming. Irony, in this case, was the name of either a classic small-town-bad-arse-kid who wears Etnies and plays music on their phone out loud on public transport wanting to look cool in front of their mates or some disgruntled drunk skunk wanting to get at he bright red sombrero I had foolishly placed on the rear window. Either way, Irony will not be getting a personalised Christmas text from me this year.

Needless to say, I didn’t have a great day yesterday. But, in an effort to perk myself up and to wrap up my column, I venture to search for the silver lining.

For one, the policeman didn’t ask for my middle name. Irony and associates didn’t rifle through my personal items after smashing my back window (which was probably just as much as win for them as the only loot they would have walked away with would have included an embarrassing stash of “legit” Ray Ban sunnies from Thailand and some tasteless phallic cookie cutters I forgot I had and can’t explain why I thought the glove box in my car was the appropriate place to store them), and the policewoman implied I was not scummy. But perhaps the silveriest lining of all is this right now. *

Because while having a rock smash through your window with insufficient insurance isn’t the bet way to start the weekend, I have an extra level of cover. I may have been the opposite of thrilled, but at least I didn’t have to think of a column topic. No matter what stupid things I say, or what ridiculous situations I get myself into, I know I will be reimbursed with column fodder. And the only premium I have to pay is my dignity. Maybe one day I might generate actual income from my lengthy verbal complaints and then I can write the fiscal consequences of my bad luck off on tax. Hurrah.

* The ancient proverb is true, for every “nah yeah”, there is a “yeah nah”: an officer said that my neighbourhood perhaps wasn’t the best place in town. He went on to say, “but this place is quite neat,” as he looked around my living room taking in my flair for decorating. I could pinpoint the second he internally retracted this statement, as his gaze aligned with a poster on my wall I’ve had since my college days which consists of wrapping paper covered in galloping ponies and a postit note stuck to the centre. I’m hoping that his poor vision blurred the handwriting of my friend, who wrote, “you don’t wanna root some grot, remember that!”, but given my terrible luck this weekend, I wouldn’t bank on it.