A few weeks ago, someone threw a load of barbeque sauce over my car – so much that I couldn’t see out of the windscreen to drive. I had to clean it in order to be able to drive. Stupidly, I didn’t take any photos. Eejit!

The husband commented that the car was halfway down the street and there were plenty of other cars that could have been targeted. Ours has a couple of rainbow decals on it: was this a homophobic attack?

That possibility sat with me – uncomfortably – as we drove. Had we been singled out?

I stewed on it while we were out driving, and decided that I was going to report the incident. I didn’t expect anything to be done about it, but I did want it recorded as homophobic damage.

Since Brexit, there has been an increase in all kinds of hate crime: I have been the victim of a couple of, albeit mild, forms of public abuse due to my sexuality – and only since 2016. Before then, the last time I encountered any kind of abuse was way back before 1997!

Later, at home, I logged the report online, which was easy to do. I didn’t expect anything to come of it.

I pretty much forgot about it.

Then the emails and missed phone calls began: a local police officer was investigating! I’d not taken any pictures, I didn’t even know when the damage had happened – the car had been parked there for a week before we noticed, and there were no witnesses. I felt useless and a pain.

I emailed the officer thanking him, but I had no more information for him other than what was in the original report and I didn’t expect him to do anything.

Today I had a phone call from a lovely, but unnecessarily apologetic, police officer: he’d walked the street where the car had been parked asking residents if they had witnessed anything., Dropping letters through the doors of those who were not there to talk to him.

I was profoundly moved by the effort that he had gone to.

My report was taken seriously – and my faith in some parts of humanity was restored!