“Yodel and burfff,” she yelled, wolfing sidewad out the car boot. “How fookin’ hell I get in thar?” She said, stooping for perspective. “That’s a car boot alri. That’s a car boot.”

Finally standing up on all fives, she lobbed back and there it was! A big plant pot gliding eerily towards her from the other end of the street. It had a look in its eyes.

It had that awful advancing plant pot look.

“Arrghhh,” she squabbed, and started to run for mercy in a very straight line. She had a bachelor’s degree and feared The Gobs, but then, like a corking Viccy Sponge, out of the trees came the oniony Prince Breezer of the Seventh Bowel. He pulled her up onto his big peach (a fabulous Hog).

“Who are you?” she said.

“I am neighbourhood watch,” he said.

“Thank you for your service,” she said.

“I am an honour,” he said, with that sexual sort of grin that made you not want to trust him.

“Stop that,” she said. “Or I’m getting off.”

It was all understood. It was a lovely evening now. The plant pot was approaching but they knew they were safe as they zoomed into a hay fever hot spot. The sky looked like a bratwurst.

It was all very Norwegian.