Monday morning life

The moral of the story is this: never stay in on a Saturday night. It does strange things to your soul. Vanessa and I were indulging in Pot Noodles and squabbling amicably over what TV to watch. Every so often one of us would say unconvincingly, "Isn't it nice to be in on a Saturday night? I'm really enjoying slobbing out. Yeah, it's great."

But after Blind Date had finished and we had checked the lottery numbers three times, we were bored. Suddenly Vanessa choked. "Oh my God, someone's being attacked in there!"

I looked across into the window of the house opposite. Certainly it looked rather exuberant for a friendly greeting. Unless, of course, the young people of today frequently bash each other's head against the wall to say hello.

"Shall we ring the police?"

"What if we're wrong?" (that was me - the typical British reaction). "Let's give it another minute or so and see."

The exuberance continued. "I don't care, I'm ringing 999," squeaked Vanessa. "Hello, yes, I'm ringing about a fight. It's in the next street to ours ... no, I don't know what number, but it's directly opposite the back of our flat which is number 23

No wonder people think we're mad.

There was a knock on our door a few minutes later. I opened it and three police burst in. I use the word accurately: they seemed to be re-enacting a scene from The Bill, pushing past us and taking up positions, radioing each other furiously. I looked at the window again. The occupants of number whatever now seemed to be the best of friends, enjoying a civilised drink together. Oh damn.

"They were fighting a minute ago," we chorused as the police at the other end reported no disturbance. I looked desperately at the window. Oh please start beating each other up again, I prayed inwardly. They didn't.

The policemen stayed around for about half an hour, cheerfully drinking our tea and remarking on our Rear Window experience, which they plainly didn't believe; but they had obviously been told to humour mad women. Vanessa and I took turns to say pathetically. "But we were really worried ... I'd rather someone rang in if they thought I was getting beaten up ... I'm really sorry ... we really did think it was a fight ... would you like another cup of tea?"

The policeman left. Number whatever continued to behave like The Waltons. "You don't think they'll guess it was us?" said Vanessa. "I don't know, but I'm not waiting to find out," I said. "Let's go hide in the pub."

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