You will be aware that Superman’s other persona is a mild-mannered reporter.

I sometimes think of myself in similar vein. People who know me may see only an overweight, middle-aged reporter who complains about a knee in need of replacement.

But what they don’t realise is that they can sleep easy in their beds at night knowing that Superwoman is guarding them against crime and harm. Crime never sleeps and neither does Superwoman.

My self image has been slightly dented over the past couple of weeks.

Last week, I went into work very early and was first in the building.

I walked into my office and was really irritated to find drawers open and bits of paper etc scattered around the desk and even some stuff on the floor.

My landlady has become a friend and I have no objection to her using my office when she needs to.

If I am not there, however, she does sometimes “store” stuff in my office. I can go in at times and find a standard lamp, back copies of the paper, curtains and/or more.

I had been sick the day before and was behind with my work, so felt decidedly grumpy as I picked up mess, slammed drawers shut and determined that I really needed to talk to her about at least cleaning up after herself.

I was busy writing last week’s column when my mobile rang.

It was my landlady asking if I had got her text.

“What text? And, by the way, I am in the office and...”

She came racing through before I could go any further.

She had texted me at 5am to warn me that there had been a break-in and my office had been entered.

The “mess” I had cleaned up just happened to be the crime scene!

Oh well, I guess even Superman had his off-moments.

Anyway, the offenders didn’t get away with many of our personal belongings.

But they did force open the charity tins and take the money from those. Appalling.

It isn’t the first time I have been involved in a crime. I didn’t realise, or had at least forgotten, that I was the first female crime reporter on a paper I worked on in South Africa in 1970.

I only found out after Mum died and I was going through her papers. She had kept a newspaper article that had been written about this fact.

I have always had an excellent relationship with my local police until places like Maryport no longer truly had a local Bobby.

Being accepted by them might not always have been a great thing, however.

I recall an armed offenders response in the hills near where I lived in New Zealand.

The public had heard a man yelling abuse and threats at what was assumed to be a woman because of the expletives he was using.

Anyway, it was the threat to kill followed by the sound of a shotgun that sparked the armed call-out.

“Scoop” Paterson was there just minutes after the police. I found an officer with his car parked in the middle of the road and went to talk to him.

He told me what was happening and then we chatted about friends and family when the policeman suddenly realised I shouldn’t be there.

“There’s a shooter out there and we are making ourselves a target!” Oops!

Turned out, though, that I was not in as much danger as I thought. The “murderer” gave himself up quite quickly and it could be said he was caught more red-faced than red-handed.

He was a farmer who had been yelling at his misbehaving dog while shooting rabbits.

But sleep easy, people. If there is ever a real crime, I will be there!