It’s half-term and from my bedroom window I can see two scruffy kids from the estate stood in my drive. They are looking at my fresh, wet cement.
One of them picks up a stick…
“Oi!” I shout. They don’t hear me. My wife waltzes into the room as I bellow, “Oi, you little shits!”
“What have I told you about swearing at passers by,” she says, chuckles and flops on the bed.
“There are two estate kids messing about with the cement,” I say. “They’re going to draw a knob or write Stop Brexit.”
My wife saunters over. “You chase them off. I’ll stay here and swear at them.”
“OK,” I say. “Have you seen my slippers?”
The race is on. I have to get to the little shits before they draw a pair of hairy bollocks or write a politically divisive statement in the cement.
As I enter the hallway, my teen son emerges out of his pit. Shoulders hunched. Hoody pulled over.
“What’s with all the swearing?” he mumbles.
“Ignore that,” I say. “Do you want to chase some kids?”
“Hang on,” he says. “I’ll get my bubble coat.”
Bubble coats are notoriously flimsy and no good in a rumble. They start loosing feathers as soon as you leave the shop. In fact I once fell into a rose bush wearing a North Face bubble coat which created a dense feather cloud akin to a bird strike on a 747.
As we descend the stairs to the backdrop of my wife shouting, “Wankers!”, I fill my teen in on the etiquette of street fighting…
“Look,” I say. “They are only about 12 or 13, so we are not allowed to hit them, but they are allowed to stab us, film it and put it on youtube.”
“So, what are we going to do?” he asks.
“Mock them with hurtful taunts,” I say. I look at the teen. “Are you ready?” He nods. I open the door…
Two days later I am out in the front garden. The postman ambles up the drive. He looks at the cement patch.
“Someone’s drawn a pair of bollocks in your cement,” he says.
“It’s half-term,” I say.