There’s an unexploded device. It’s by our house. Right outside, apparently, according to the police presence. They’ve cordoned off the entire block—just after 3pm, I had to leg* it to intercept my kid on his way back from school, what with his usual route being taped off.

*Hobble pitifully

It’s gotta be a wartime jobbie. Two or three houses a couple of doors down were razed to the ground in the Blitz, after all. Maybe the neighbours have dug up a little relic. Of course, that’s merely speculation, and isn’t that always rife by default?

In keeping with said rifeness, gossip swirled around pretty swiftly: “Someone’s left a bomb on the police station doorstep.” (As y’do.)

The truth is somewhere in between. The story (so far) goes that some bright spark had taken a bomb to the copshop, and it turned out to be unexploded ordnance from the multi-billion-dollar sequel to the First World War—the second local explodey in as many weeks, what with the sitch at Bidston tip last Monday. (We also had one in Hoylake in December gone, and at least one in Birkenhead in ’24, so maybe we’re going for some kinda record over here.)

(Note: If you do so happen to uncover any sort of weapon—be it a shooting device, a stabber, or an otherwise suspicious-looking gadget—be sure to call 999 immediately. Don’t be carrying bombs around, kids.)

How does it make me feel, though, being told to stay indoors, awaiting further instruction? How does it feel having to keep the kids away from the windows, holed up in the kitchen?

Lucky. I feel lucky.

This is Good ol’ Blighty, where (most) explosive matters are typically sorted within a matter of hours. This isn’t Palestine. It’s neither Ukraine nor Venezuela. And before I’ve even finished writing this li’l piece, the cops have vacated, with nary a word. I think we’re supposed to assume it’s safe, now.

And for us, it is. Halfway across the globe, though, there’s a heckuva lot of folk safety eludes. People who never get to assume, wondering instead whether their kids will survive another day, whether it’s safe to go outside at any given moment. This whole fuckinpocalypse is a sleeper; a creeper. It’s not about me, sitting in relative safety in a Victorian semi. It’s about you. All of you.

So why the blog? Simps: the journalist in me has to write about it. If she doesn’t, she ain’t breathing. Which is more than can be said for countless Palestinians, Ukrainians, and Venezuelans.

People are pissed. We’re all unexploded mortars.

Just wait ’til we go off.