Help. I'm not allowed home.

Well, that was an interesting afternoon.

I'd been to a writers' meeting in North Lakes—nothing too dramatic, just a room full of lovely people quietly making things up for fun. But when I got back near home around 12:45, reality had beaten fiction to it. Police had blocked off my street.
There's only one way in and one way out by car, which suddenly made it feel less like a street and more like a sealed container. I parked around the corner and tried the pedestrian approach, cutting through the park. I made it almost to the finish line—home was right there, within easy walking distance—when they stopped me. The whole area was locked down. No entry.
I'll admit, I wasn't thrilled. There's something uniquely frustrating about being able to see where you live but not being allowed to go there. So I turned around, retreated with what dignity I could muster, and went back to the car.
It was lunchtime, which felt like a reasonable next move under the circumstances, so I headed to the Kallangur Tavern. If you can't go home, you may as well go somewhere that serves food. After that, still with time to fill and no clear end in sight, I drove over to Sweeney Reserve for a walk.
I was dressed for a library—jeans and a T-shirt—forgetting entirely that Queensland doesn't care about your wardrobe choices. The midday sun had settled in properly by then, and it was the sort of heat that doesn't negotiate. Still, the walk did its job. It gave me something to do, even if it felt like I was slowly being roasted alive.
Eventually, I started thinking about alternative routes home. I remembered a cut-through from Thompson Road, so I drove there, parked again, and set off on foot. It seemed promising—until I reached the path and found two police officers standing across it.
I paused. They didn't move. Fair enough.
Me being me, I walked up anyway and asked if I could pass.
"What number do you live at?" the WPC asked.
I told her.
That changed things. She escorted me home, calmly explaining that I'd need to stay indoors until the incident was over. It was all very matter-of-fact. I told her, with a wry smile, that I was far too old to be out partying on a Saturday night anyway. She didn't take the bait, which was probably wise.
Back inside, the day slowed down again. Around 5:30, several wailers sounded nearby—sharp, sudden—but without any explanation. By 5:45, curiosity got the better of me. I opened the garage door and found the street quietly coming back to life. Cars were moving. People were outside, talking in small groups, piecing together what they could.
As far as I knew, no official word had reached us. One moment everything was locked down; the next, it simply… wasn't.
I took that as my cue to retrieve the car and bring her home, where she belongs.
It may not have been handled perfectly from a communication standpoint, but the important thing is that it seemed to end peacefully. Whatever happened behind the scenes, my thoughts are with the person at the centre of it.