Feature by Michelle Corbett

I STILL remember the phone call. It's the kind you hope you'll never get.

"Somebody's been in the house Michelle. We're not really sure what's been taken, but it's all in a bit of a mess," my landlady told me gently. What could she say apart from 'I'm sorry'?

Being burgled isn't something you can just stick a plaster over. The wound cuts far too deep. If there's one place you're entitled to feel safe in, it's your own home; but the day somebody decides to kick your door down, rummage through your knicker draw and snatch all your valuables is the last day it'll ever feel like it.

The back door was swinging in the wind when we pulled up in the car, the broken doorframe scattered over the lino in the kitchen. I used to think locking that door meant my home was secure. Daft really, but you get this funny idea Burglar Bill will only pay a visit if you've been stupid enough to leave it wide open. Not so, I'm afraid.

They'd taken anything that was worth anything and some stuff that even Del Boy wouldn't try to flog, but funnily enough you don't look at your belongings as pound signs when your burgled. Having my little portable telly stolen wasn't about the £50 it cost. It was about losing a precious gift from my boyfriend on our very first Valentine's Day and that hurt.

We reported the whole thing of course. Got ourselves a little 'crime number' and tried to remain hopeful - even when the Police told us we'd more than likely never see our stuff again (which we didn't).

But as the weeks went on, I realised they'd nicked something else as well - our right to peace of mind when we went out for an afternoon. My right to climb into bed without thinking of the day I walked in to see it stripped bare by a stranger searching for scraps of cash. And any faith in the justice system, when you realise burglars can enter your home and laugh all the way to the bank.