Mr Moan-a-lot and the doomed waste dump

Thursday June 7, 2007

The day was rescued, but only just. I’d thought all was set and secure to tootle over to the garden centre, have lunch, kick a few plant pots and such, and then come home for a nice quiet afternoon of siesta followed by an evening in the fading light, sipping my wine allowance [we've decided I can have a couple of glasses of an evening when Graham's home], and end up with a light supper and an episode of Teachers.

And that was how it would have gone if it had not been for the sordid intervention of Mr Moan-a-lot. Mr Moan-a-lot is our next door neighbour but one and is a perfect example of a bloke who has absolutely nothing good to say about the world, the universe, or anything. They’re all out to get him, or so he seems to think. And, you know what? I think they have good cause.

See, Mr Moan-a-lot has been dumping his garden waste behind our garage, covering the damp-proof course, and endangering the timber fence. We know it’s him but he’s so sneaky it’s been impossible to catch him red-handed. A polite ‘no tipping’ notice has had no effect.

“That blighter’s been at it again,” said an incandescent Graham.

“Let’s have a look.”

Sure enough, there was another great heap of soil and grass, evidently from Mr Moan-a-lot’s current garden project.

“I think this has gone far enough,” I said. “I shall have a word with him.”

“No. I shall have a word with him.”

“In that case I think we’d be best advised to wait until we’ve cooled down. Let’s forget the garden centre and do a quick shop at Sainsbury’s, come home and sleep on it.”

Graham was  visibly upset, considerably so. He endured the fast pass through the supermarket, but only just.

“Don’t let it spoil your day any more than it has already,” I said.

“Sorry. Can’t help it. I have a plan, though.”

“Oh. What’s that, then?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out. And Mr Moan-a-lot.”

“Well, just so long as it’s legal.”

When we got home Graham disappeared and there ensued a period of much sawing, hammering, drilling and general battering of timber. Then I got a call.

“Come and look at this.”

It was one of the neatest, and stoutest, fencing jobs I’ve seen in a long, time, completely enclosing and rendering inacessible the small triangle behind the garage that Mr Moan-a-lot has been using as his personal dump.

“Oh dear,” I said. “That’ll give him something to moan about.”

“Won’t it just?”

Our wine time this evening, in the garden, was awfully sweet.