We can all fantasise

Earlier today, I picked a cider bottle out of my front hedge which some low life had deposited in there as they walked by. Everyone hates a litterbug, but as I knelt down and extracted the bottle, along with a few cigarette packets and fast food cartons, I found myself fantasising about lying in wait for these shitweasels with a bow and arrow.

My dad once told me that when lorries used to fly by the house at breakneck speed, bunny-hopping over a hump in the road, and rocking the house to its foundations, he used to dream of lying in wait under the hedge with a .303 rifle (he used to fire .303s in Hong Kong in the 1940s) and shooting the tyres off the lorries. (The lorries, of course, would then career into somebody else's front garden, but dad says that's not the point.)