‘Die! Die! Die!’ came the voice from my neighbour’s garage.
‘I’m going to kill you.’ Along with the dull sounds of some object being battered and stabbed with something sharp.
Now, I’d just returned from buying some pot plants for my garden and while I was keen to perform my civic duty, I did have some petunias to deal with. It was a tough call. It’s not so much the blood that bothers me, it’s the same infernal questions afterwards - “Now, sir, could you explain exactly what you were doing being the disused gasworks on the evening of the incident? And why the officer found you carrying eighteen punnets of strawberries?”
But Baby was sleeping and I did worry that a road-full of blazing sirens might disturb her.
I armed myself with a tray of marigolds.
I peered around the door.
My neighbour’s ten year old son was mutilating a cardboard box while screaming obscenities at it.
As his fury subsided, he looked up. He saw me watching, utterly perplexed.
‘Always helps to relieve a little stress’ he explained.
I left him to it, double-locking my gate on the way.
I'll have to remember your rules for confronting a potential slasher: make sure you're armed with a tray of bedding plants. Preferably marigolds or strawberries, if they're really dangerous. I never would have thought of that one myself.
Posted by: Mrs RW | Sunday, 03 June 2007 at 01:30 PM
Humn. Perhaps you could put a leaflet for anger management classes through their door. Surrepticiously of course.
Posted by: LondonGirl | Sunday, 03 June 2007 at 07:40 PM
Waving flowers, Mrs RW, is a well known disarmament technique in these parts. You can get a nasty lash from a well-aimed petal, you know.
I like the idea of trying to calm him down, LondonGirl. But the prospect of being seen is too much. Maybe I'll put something in the post...
c.
Posted by: Carlton | Tuesday, 05 June 2007 at 11:40 AM