Though beheading my tomato plants was a nasty, painful business it was not without its benefits. The greatest of which is I now have a clear line of vision from my green armchair to outside where I can easily spot neighbours like Mr Bartholemew lurking around on the pinch.

I watched him this morning, bold as brass, poking his head over the wall and scanning the yard for more top brand freebies. This time however I let him know I was onto his little game.

“T-h-e-r-e-s  n-o  d-o-g f-o-o-d  h-e-r-e  t-o-d-a-y. F-u-c-k o-f-f!” I mouthed through the window, giving him the sideways thumb home. He somehow threw his arms in the air, whipped his flat cap down tight and stormed off. I watched as he went, as his ginormous arse cheeks shuddered around in his pants like semi set blancmange. God, how the human race has let itself go, I thought, what monstrous beings we've become. And then, as if right on cue, John appeared.

“I've had a BM,” he said. “Tristy, I've shit my pants.”

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