On a recent lazy Sunday morning, I met a friend for a long brunch at Westmount Mall.

Over eggs and pancakes, we indulged in our ritual of mutual ranting that, while it never really solves any of life’s big problems, at least leaves us both feeling relieved.

At one point in our conversation, my friend mentioned that on the way to the diner, she saw police tape around a strip mall steps from my apartment.

I wasn’t upset. Maybe it’s a bit callous, but random violence like that rarely hits an emotional chord with me. The Inglewood neighbourhood near 118 Avenue and 124 Street, where I live, isn’t exactly classy, but I feel safe there. One of my neighours, a short, stocky woman with glasses, makes a habit of watching our parking lot for drug deals. When she sees someone sitting in their car too long, she taps on their window and tells them to move along.

Sometimes in the summer, homeless men sleep on the little patches of grass in the neighbourhood, and they regularly mine the dumpster in the backyard for bottles and cans, but they don’t bother anyone.

The worst treatment I’ve received was at the nearby bus stop this summer. A group of tweens decided they wanted some action and one of them asked me if I wanted to join them for a gang-bang. A loud and clear “Fuck off” had the poor little tyke about to cry. I wondered whether he even knew what he was asking. The other adults waiting at the stop just grinned.

The reputation 118 Avenue has gained really isn’t deserved, especially at the west end, where I live. Random attacks like the stabbing last week are extremely rare. In the summer, late at night, I often enjoy the still silence of the streets. The only thing that frightens me then is the abandoned Camsell Hospital, and that’s because I think it could be haunted.

So when my neighbour, a freelance photographer with a green thumb, knocked on my door on Sunday night to tell me her husband’s new running shoes had been stolen from the mat in front of her door, I shouldn’t have been bothered. Really, what’s a pair of shoes compared to a stabbing? Or an invitation to a gang-bang?

But the shoe theft bothered me. It was a violation.

I shook my head as my partner moved our shoes inside.

Over the last year or so, I’ve been defending my neighbourhood to just about everyone who will listen, placing special emphasis on the virtues of the people who live in my apartment building. I’ve become very proud of my building, actually. My neighbour plants geraniums and long, climbing vines in our backyard. The super’s cats roam the halls, soliciting attention from all the tenants. The building is always clean.

But it’s a hard slog defending the area. Even the fine people who attend community league meetings cast a suspicious eye on the modest three-storey walk-ups that ring the neighbourhood, as if not having enough money to buy a house in an insanely overheated market means you are a criminal.

When I arrived home from work on Monday, there was a little note about the theft on the building’s front door, and my head sank a little. Except for my super, who defiantly leaves his paint-stained work boots out, the hallways of my apartment building are now empty.

I guess I should add a bit about petty theft to my weekly rant.