“Gahhh!” The white-haired man grasped at his throbbing big toe, peeping through worn-out tartan slippers. On his front doorstep were the glimmering green shards of a cheap lager bottle, now freshly flecked with crimson.
“Ruddy good-for-nothing stinking yobs!” he screamed, flailing his cane at his imagined teenage assailants.
He managed to hobble back into his house, while muttering about the shocking decline of morality in twenty-first century Britain.
Across the road, the curtains of number twenty-five twitched. On the other side of them, a crinkled face smiled.
That would teach the old codger to back his car into his prize hydrangeas.