LAST Tuesday evening I took a late walk along the canal, enjoying England in full bloom.

Back at the car a voicemail message from the landlord was waiting. Burglars had broken into the flat.

I drove back to discover everything within two feet of the patio doors coated in shards of broken glass. The burglars had smashed through the doors with a hammer. I watched the landlord pace the debris, making fruitless efforts to contact his 24-hour insurers. We waited for the police.

Thankfully, an astute neighbour had noticed someone suspicious on the balcony and on his approach the burglars – a woman and two men – had retreated.

But not before overturning the bedrooms and stamping irreplaceable photographs of loved ones on to the floor. Sadly we’re not the only people to experience the pain of being burgled. The violation can leave you emptied out. I’m still seething over the Christmas Eve a few years back when burglars broke in and – you couldn’t sink any lower – stole my children’s Christmas presents.

The police investigated and soon more officers arrived, taking statements and fingerprints. Among the items stolen was my passport. The police officer gave me a crime reference number and told me to contact the Passport Office first thing in the morning.

As usual I had to press a succession of numbers before getting through to a person, who told me to go online.

Explaining truthfully that I didn’t have internet access – the burglars had taken my laptop – I was told to go to a “public access internet point”. In Oxford this means either the internet café on New Inn Hall Street or the Westgate Central Library.

“Can you honestly not just make a note of it over the phone” I asked? “No”, he said helpfully, I had to go online.

Still shaken up from the burglary, I made the trek to the library, only to discover the page of the website where you report stolen passports wasn’t working.

“Is there honestly nothing you can do for me?“ I said, calling back outside. I was told to go to the Post Office and pick up a form.

We’ve all heard horror stories about people stealing identities from passports, setting up dummy bank accounts, and so on.

“By the time the form gets to you in the post they could do anything,” I choked.

“In that case sir,” he quipped disinterestedly, “I’d advise you to get the Post Office as soon as possible.”

Have you been to St Aldate’s Post Office recently? It has been dragged into the 21st century. A shiny machine spits out raffle tickets and you hover in an endless queue, hoping to get served before your namesake boards a flight to Syria. Meanwhile, the landlord still hasn’t got through to his 24-hour insurers.