Thief In The Night

The house over the road has had a skip out the front for the last couple of days. It seems as though it's going to be there all weekend. I've been looking at that big, yellow, paint chipped box every time I've headed out my front gate. You see, I've had these two heavy – not very big, not toxic – pieces of junk that I have wanted to get rid of for a while. I would have put them in the bin, but they weighed a ton. Too heavy. I’ve been at a loss at what to do with them. They only take up this much room. Two fingers held in the air.

I would never do this, I never have. I don't think it's fair to take advantage of somebody else, but I just wanted to clean my attic. I'd just thought about the two pieces, coincidently, this week and, bingo, as if to order, the skip appeared like the universe was trying to tell me something.

Last night, lying in bed with Will and Grace, I was fighting off the urge for McDonalds, strangely. I never eat McDonalds, maybe once a year. I compromised on strawberry jam toast instead, surely that must be better for me, I thought. Then there was the new pizza delivery menu on the kitchen bench, as I waited for the toast to pop, as I wondered why I don’t own slippers, as my feet froze on the tiled floor. Oh, it’s passed 1am. I turned it over and it delivered until 5am. Ah, junk food city! And just like that, that skip came into my head.

Minutes later, like a thief in the night, my head appeared over my gate. All I needed was a balaclava. I grabbed my illegal booty and headed to the street. Missy had appeared through the front door and began to meow like a snitch. Last I saw her she was prostrate across my doona.

“Shhhh!” I said, which only made her reply more vocally.

Missy followed me out onto the road like a nagging boyfriend. Grrr!

Halfway across the road I heard voices and saw people at the end of the street testing the Gertrude Street light festival thingy.

“Ah!”

I instinctively turned back to flee home again. I took two steps back towards the house.

“What am I doing, being the poster boy for criminals?”

I turned back again, telling myself not to be stupid, like I couldn't have made it more obvious with my middle of the road guilt two-step than if I'd yelled out, Just dumping rubbish here, don't worry about me!

Be cool, will you.

For the second piece, I pushed Missy back into the house before I did the deed.

I’ve been waiting for someone to knock on the door ever since. I don’t think I’m made for a life of crime.