The little deviant was out there again! From behind his net curtains Norman watched the waif from 77 fiddling with the streetlight. He had a mind to march over, confront him. Yet Jeremy Kyle would be on the telly soon.
He’d write to the council again, or the Daily Mail. Someone had to make a stand, this street was going to the dogs.
Norman retreated to his armchair that over the years had faded like him. The scotch waiting on the side table, glass ready.
Norman turned on the television.
A glance at the clock.
Trembling fingers unscrewed the cap.