Monday morning, eight fifteen. As usual, I leave the house to stroll down to the paper shop. As soon as I open the door, I notice something very strange. For about twelve years, I’ve had two stone (well, cast concrete actually) planters outside the door, one on each side. Originally they contained dwarf holly trees, but those died and were replaced a couple of years ago with standard box. I never liked them all that much, to be honest, but I’d rather they hadn’t been stolen.
It’s quite extraordinary, isn’t it? Someone has taken the trouble to steal into my garden, presumably in the wee small hours, and silently spirit away these seriously heavy chunks of slightly kitschy garden décor – to what end? The whole lot can’t have come to more than £200 at cost, and they’re not going to get more than half of that, even if they manage to find a buyer. It must have taken two, possibly three, strong sub-humans to do the carrying, plus a vehicle and a look-out, and would have taken probably twenty or thirty minutes. That’s a top end, high risk return of about thirty quid each, less expenses. Doesn’t sound like a good earner to me.
I’m not going to replace them, of course. Or rather, perhaps I will, with a couple of really cheap, naff plastic items from B&Q, artificial shrubs, and leave a note underneath saying ‘Thank you so much for relieving me of that crap; could you please take some of the rubbish plants in the garden too?’ But that’d be a waste of an ironic semi-colon, wouldn’t it?