So anyway, I’m on the train home, when the phone starts playing ‘Pasta La Vista’ in my pocket. It’s Mr P, with some garbled message about how I’m not to worry when I see the garden fence, the police have been called, and they might be around. When I got home, the fence by the bin was in bits and a few of my plants have been trampled. Mr P said that just as he’d got to the door, a young man had leapt over the wall next door, then over our fence, trampling my best green things that I planted last year and forgot the name of, but they’re very pretty and they didn’t need trampling. He ran up to Mr P, begged him to let him into the house or “those guys” would do him in. “Those guys” were two slightly older boys bearing baseball bats and heading down next door’s garden path. Mr P looked at him, looked at the men with bats, then looked at Ceej in her buggy, and said: “Umm…sorry…” Only by this time, the kid had decided not to hang about and took off back up our garden path and back over the fence, hotly pursued by the bat men. Mr P listened to them all running and shouting up the road, then called the police, who were almost as laconic as they were about the burglary a few years ago.

Well, the fence isn’t too bad in daylight, and the plants will survive, I suppose. Mr P reckons it was something to do with a deal gone wrong – lots of that stuff happens in our quiet little street round the back of the Millwall supporters’ pub.

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