Sorry, Mr. Thief

In our run-up to our one-year anniversary in this fair city, we found ourselves faced with the quintessential New York experience. Our apartment was broken into.

Friday evening, upon returning home from work, Doobie rushed straight into my room, where I'd been beavering away industriously. "Ficali did you open my bedroom window??!"
"No, why would I?" I responded, puzzled, since I've always known how particular Doobie is about keeping her window pulled shut. We both walked back into her room, and looked at the gaping window in puzzlement.

"Oh look!" She suddenly exclaimed. "Someone's been in my room!"
And then, glancing around, "someone's gone through my stuff!"
And then, stepping in closer to examine her bed, "someone has walked on my bed with their shoes on!"

And like that, much in the same way that the three bears sleuthed their way to the realisation that their abode had been intruded upon by Goldilocks, it dawned upon Doobie and me that we too had had an intruder.

That in itself was enough to infuriate us and fill us with a sense of invaded privacy. Calm down, oh thumping hearts!

But then, upon further perusal and astute summation, we realised pretty quickly that our losses were limited. A camera, and some junk jewelry.
"Did you lose anything of value?"
"No. Did you?"
"I don't own anything of value."

Sorry, Mr. Thief, that of all the apartments you could have broken into, you ended up at one where there was nothing worth stealing. And I'm sorry you thought to take the junk jewelry but leave this dear laptop.

Heh heh.