It seemed hard to believe, and it was even harder to clean. All I know about the culprit is that they must be agile
L
ast summer, I found poo in the wheelie bin. Nothing unusual there: you can’t blame dog walkers for a reluctance to tote warm sacks in a heatwave. But this was different. This was unbagged and … not canine.
Had our bin really moonlit as a loo? It seemed hard to believe. Someone would have had to trundle it from its traditional position by the path, line it up with the wall, flip its lid, walk into the neighbours’ garden, climb on to their bike shed and strategically crouch, conscious that one false wobble could be, if not fatal, then certainly quite messy. In full view of the street. On a sort of podium. When a handy hedge was right there. Surely not?
But then it happened again. And – here I will spare some details – this time there could be no doubt. The upstairs neighbours and I racked our brains. Who had we so annoyed that this was their revenge? Should they have offered more for that secondhand printer? Was my stint on the Polaroids stall at the school fete really that bad? Our only clue to the culprit, unless we were to go down the DNA route, was that they would need to be pretty limber.
