I’ve done a bad thing tonight.
Not that I particularly care. But I feel I should confess to remove some level of guilt.
When I got home from work, I found one of next door’s many, many footballs in the garden. Now I have mentioned to the mother that if I find a ball in the garden I will take it away because it’s getting a bit fricking ridiculous now and we have practically no fence left.
So I took it away.
And I kept it inside for a bit.
And then I felt bad about keeping the ball. Well, not so much keeping the ball, but the fallout from keeping the ball – after all, I did hear the 13 year old gobshite say that if I tried to keep his ball it would be a very different story. So, you know, I could barely contain the fear.
So, shaking like a shitting dog, I took the ball round the back of the house and threw it into their garden.
And it bounced into a bush and has now vanished.
So basically, I have lost their ball. Or one of their balls, at least.
I can now, if asked, legitimately say I have no idea where the ball is, because I genuinely don’t. I know the direction it went in, and after that it’s down to gravity, momentum, potential and kinetic energies and some other bollocks.
They don’t know, as yet, that I have lost the ball. They don’t know that I took the ball in the first place. Normally, I just hoof them out onto the massive expanse of grass that you would expect children to play football on and be done with it.
If I look at it another way, though, what I have done is created a kind of school holiday mystery, the likes of which used to fill many a literary school child’s time away from the classroom. A treasure hunt of sorts, but with absolutely no clues whatsoever.
I’m hoping there’s a chance that I’ll find the aforementioned gobshite’s stereo in the garden one day and can through that into a bush, hard, as well.
It’s going to be a long summer.