My rubbish attempts at diplomacy come unstuck

The estate agent described it as a 'quaint pedestrianised passageway.' But it's becoming increasingly apparent that the road I live on is, in fact, just a plain old bin alley.

The house that backs onto ours leaves its rubbish right outside our gate and it's started to encroach upon our front garden. "They must think we're mugs!" I shouted, as I surveyed their stinking refuse heap on Sunday morning. "It's no different to them coming round and doing a shit on our doorstep!"

I was already striding off in the direction of their front door... doing my special dickhead walk.

My wife smiled appeasingly. "Yes," she said. "Although, not nearly as bad as that if you think about it…" But it was too late for reason. I was already striding off in the direction of their front door. "Try not to be a dickhead about it," she called after me. But deep down she knew I was going to be a dickhead about it. I was doing my special dickhead walk.

BANG, BANG, BANG! "Answer the door!" I shouted through their ornate letterbox. But there was no reply. I pictured them cowering behind the sofa like Hitler and Goebbels in their bunker; consumed by guilt and fear of righteous retribution. Or maybe they'd just nipped out to get the papers. Either way, I wasn't going to let this lie.

"What the fuck are you doing?" asked my wife moments later when she caught me trying to lob the rubbish bags over their back wall. It had proved a rather more difficult task than I'd expected; one of the bags had split and now I had rotting vegetables and bits of shredded bank statement all down my front. She shook her head. "Maybe we should just call the council," I mumbled. ·