Last 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?
