The Wrong Arm Of The Law

The doorbell rang this afternoon and who should it be but one of Her Majesty's Testicle Jugglers!

'Are you Ricky?'

Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking I am, although I haven't been called that since I was eleven. So in order to obtain clarification I replied:

'Ricky who?'

At this point the rozzer gave me a thoroughly suspicious look. Admittedly his suspicion may have been aroused by the fact that I was ever so slightly dishevelled, having just woken up from my afternoon nap.

However, when a peeler looks at you like that, I find it immediately prompts one to riffle through one's mental diary desperately searching for any misdemeanours in the past ten years, drunken or otherwise, which might have attracted the attention of the local constabulary. Having drawn nothing but blank sheets, and dismissing out of hand the notion that the uniformed dullard standing in front of me may have apprehended the moron who detached the bumper from the TT while I was away last week, and had bowled over to convey the glad tidings, I decided the best plan of action was to return the compliment.

After a silent stand off that lasted a good ten seconds, he cracked.

'This your flat?'

Flat? Flat?

'No. This is my house. All of it. I own the lot.'

At that point his suspicious look turned to an expression of confusion mixed with greed and envy, and with a curt apology, and mumbling something about having the wrong address, he plodded back down the garden path.