Ends of Gardens

Tonight I am covering a music practical lesson at the prison. The
men don't seem to need any input from a tutor, they tell me their usual
teacher accompanies them on violin. I do have a violin but can't play
it.

One of them bemoans the fact they don't have a regular practise room
like they have in the scrubs he makes a plea based on the fact that
they are trustworthy.

"It's not like we are murderers or anything" he says "well we ARE
murderers" This is the best laugh I have had all week. He goes on to
tell me that what he means is they are not the dangerous type of
psychotic murderers. "Oh just your everyday type of nice murderer?" I
say. Fortunately he finds this amusing.

When I get home my next door neighbour comes round for a word. I like
my next door neighbour. I don't usually like it when she comes round
"for a word". It generally means something bad has been done by one of
the kids.

My neighbour lurks in the hall and whispers behind her hand. Apparently
Noel (the neighbour the other side of her) has discovered a bucket at
the bottom of his garden with something nasty in it. I am agog.

Gradually the hall fills with teenagers who have sniffed out that
something is up.

The nasty thing in the bucket turns out to be a poo. Noel suspects one
of the kids. As we have six kids between us and any number of
additional ones at any time the suspicion has no real focus.

I can't keep a straight face.

I suggest it could have been a fox.

Noel showed the bucket to Dave next door. My neighbour says she hasn't
ever heard of a fox using toilet paper.

"Who pooed in a bucket at the end of Noel's garden?" I ask of the
teenagers. They all fall about laughing. They express disgust at the
very idea.

There is a great deal of conjecture about who the bucket pooer might
have been. Several suspects with grudges are named. Numerous people
appear to have a motive.

"I bet it was one of your guests at the party on Saturday," the oldest
son quips.

I try to imagine which guest it might have been. I did ask them all to
bring their own toilet paper.

The atmosphere in the hall is one of general mirth. We are all
smaning. It isn't every day that a bucket with a poo in is
discovered in our street.

I tell my neighbour where I have been this evening and show her my
prison belt. She looks quite impressed. She says she had noticed me
bedecked in leather and chains but had thought it a style thing.

We agree that the perpetrator of the bucket atrocity will never be
unmasked. Some mysteries in life are never solved.