No Stone Left Unturned
A few years ago, we woke on a snowy March morning. I gazed out into the back garden and noticed there was no snow on the tops of the garden walls. I looked closer and realised THERE WERE NO TOPS ON MY GARDEN WALLS! Someone had snuck in during the night and stolen the York stone slabs that formed the tops of my garden walls.
Enraged, and still in my dressing gown and slippers, I went into the snowy garden and out into the alleyway that runs behind our house. Footprints in the snow, little snow dumps for the topping stones, and little droplets of blood from where the dip-s*** had cut himself lifting the rather cumbersome slabs.
First things first, I thought, phone the police and get it reported. The local station is around the corner from my house, and I was told that one of the boys in blue would be with me shortly. I figured I would walk to the end of the alleyway to meet them. In doing so, I inadvertently stumbled upon a trail of blood drips in the snow, leading from my garden, working their way down the alleyway, over the road, and up to the front door of a neighbouring house.
Sure enough, the local bobby appears, also with a mug of tea in hand, and we start discussing the trail of blood. Then a tatty transit van pulls up, slaps on the hazards, and parks up in the middle of the road. The driver gets out, turns to the copper, and says:
Driver: “Is it alright if I park up here? I’m just helping a mate move some stone.”
The policeman and I share a look and a “oh really?” and start to make our way up the blood-dripped path to the front door of his mate and my neighbour’s house. Now, it is worth mentioning that the house belongs to a good friend of mine who rents it out.
The tenant opens the door as we are walking up the path, and lo and behold, stacked up in neat rows behind him are massive piles of York slabs (far more than were taken from my wall), but amongst them were ones I knew were mine from the odd size and shape.
Policeman: “Is that your stone, sir?”
Neighbour: “Yes, mate, I have just pulled it up out of my cellar; I’m off to sell it.”
Policeman: “All of it?”
Neighbour: “Yup”
Policeman: “What about those bits. They are oddly shaped and look suspiciously like the ones taken from your neighbour’s wall last night.”
Neighbour: “Yup, definitely all mine.”
At this point, I decide to give my friend, the owner of the property, a call on speaker phone.
Me: “[Friend], it’s [My Name]. I’m standing outside your house with the police at the moment; some of my Yorkshire slabs went AWOL in the night. Have you given your tenant permission to rip up your cellar floor and sell the stone?”
Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t. So, over the next few hours, the dip-s*** stone thief was made to put back all of the stone he had pilfered from his landlord’s cellar and my wall, before being taken off to the cells whilst his landlord started eviction proceedings.
All whilst I was in my slippers and dressing gown, drinking coffee.
