Suddenly, the whole thing seemed bizarre. Here I was, in my living room, secured by packing tape to one of my hard-backed dining chairs, about to be robbed.

A torch beam shone out of the darkness into my eyes. I closed them against the harsh glare.

“I could gag you,” the intruder said from somewhere in my living room, “but how about we make a deal? – If you shout, I’ll kill you. If you understand, say you understand.”

“I understand,” I said.

And I did. I was being burgled. Robbed. Attacked in my own home and taped to one of my own chairs. Despite my sudden surge of anger and my indignation, I felt remarkably unafraid. It was almost as though the whole incident was being perpetrated against someone other than myself.

“Good,” the voice said. Then the room flooded with light.

I blinked and waited until my eyes had become accustomed to the brightness, then I looked at the housebreaker.

My first, hurried, impression had been accurate. He was tall and slim, dressed in brown boots, green trousers, a black leather jacket and gloves. He had a black hat on his head, covering his hair and pulled down to just above his eyes. There was a red bandanna covering his face from just below his eyes. I’d never be able to give an accurate description of him to the police. The one thing I had got wrong – which was an immense relief – was the shotgun. It was half of a black snooker cue. Even so, had I known that, I doubt I would have attempted to tackle him.

He was looking around the room.

“Not bad,” he said, sizing up the value of my possessions.

The items he seemed interested in were my antiques and my paintings. During the entire robbery he never mentioned money, credit cards or chequebooks. It was as if he had specific items in mind. A professional art thief.

He leaned the cue against the doorframe and started moving around the room, taking paintings off the wall and placing them in the centre of the living room floor. I watched as he stacked Thomson’s Sunflowers, Namsoo’s Blue Vase, Whiting’s West Pier, Hale’s Strelitszais, Jackson’s The Invisible Worm, and three untitled works by Tabacek, Parker and Turner. He examined Embden’s Chalk Path II, then, after a moment of what I took to be hesitation, left it on the wall.