The week all started routinely enough. There I was busy appreciating the daily influx of photographs submitted by enthusiastic subscribers to these sagest of pages… including these finialed beauties. (Which have the look of South Shropshire about them) They came from an email address in hotmail which ought to have raised suspicions, if not hackles. No note was attached.
Things took a turn for the sinister when we received the following photograph a day later. From the same email address. And this time there was a note…
We were horror struck. Anybody who knows me would realise that if someone were to give me a penny, I still wouldn’t have two pennies to rub together. So even if I did somehow know the whereabouts of an ageing water pump I could never put my hand on that kind of money. So we had to play the waiting game.
Then I saw that the evil fiend had carelessly signed his name at the bottom and so I started to put two and two together. My mate Pete Greenrod has a broken-down Vauxhall Cavalier in the scrap yard he calls his garden and he has manky, stinking trainers like those in the picture. But then it couldn’t be him – I’m sure his is the 1984 model. And the ransom note specifically says that it’s not him anyway, it’s some other Pete. A red herring then.
This story didn’t have a happy ending, and appreciators of fine telegraph poles should look away now. We received this photograph yesterday. An act of vile desperation, carried out without compunction by a soul-less Vauxhall (and Ryobi chainsaw) owner. Probably with a wood stove and who doesn’t mind the stink of burning creosote.
