The night before last I heard a bit of rowdyism on the street followed by a few bangs, and some laughter.
Not enough to drag me out of bed and, anyway ours is a very peaceful neighbourhood-not like our last one.

On our last street a local (and extremely anti-social) squat was raided by the guards one night and we were riveted as all the inhabitants escaped out the back onto the roofs of neighbouring houses, and were chased there too by the guards. We had front row seats as the arrests were made,and were running madly between our front and back windows as the drama unfolded.
We rather thought that a few of the most acrobatic managed to escape.

But I digress….
Yesterday morning when we came outdoors we discovered the source of the previous nights shenanigans; our three bins and those of most of our neighbours had been turned over on the pavement.
As it happens our bins were so tightly packed with rubbish that nothing had spilled out, that was not the case with some of the neighbours who had a big clean up to do.
I spent the rest of the day muttering about what I would like to do to them if I caught them etc.
In the afternoon, to add to my woes, I discovered that because of the extreme unseasonability of the weather we had run out of fuel and we needed a fire.
I went down to the local shop for a couple of bales of briquettes.
In the shop, chatting to the young blonde assistant, were 4 typical local teenage boys.
As I passed them sniggering and drinking coke it struck me that these were probably the very crowd who had had the bin-tipping spree on the previous night.
I put on my best glowering, grumpy old man expression as I struggled past them with the briquettes to the door.
As I struggled to open the door a little miracle happened.
One of the youths leapt over and, with a smile, opened it for me.
Pathetically grateful, and guilty of terrible mental miscarriages of justice I smiled back and thanked him effusively.
I was still grinning broadly as I got back home.
Sometimes its great to be wrong.