For months – years even – the old codger opposite us has had sneaky early-morning cigarettes in his garden shed, then thrown the butts over into our back yard. For a long time, we weren’t sure enough who did it to throw them back, til one time we spotted him in the act. Since then, mostly we’ve thrown them back, which stops it for a while. But quite often we just chuck them in the rubbish.
One time late last year we left it for a while and in days there were 30-40 fagbutts. We didn’t have the heart to throw them all back at once, just binned them but since then I’ve been assiduous about throwing back every one (and making sure they don’t land on the shed roof but fall squarely in their actual garden), which is having a good effect.
Anyway, last night as the storm raged, I couldn’t sleep properly and at one point I fell asleep only to wake up a second later, convinced someone was in the kitchen. I snuck downstairs and there was a bloke standing in our yard smoking. I opened the door and said something like “Oi, fuck off!” but the bloke reached into his pocket, pulled out a kitchen knife and came for me. At that point I backed back into the kitchen and somehow shut the door on his arm, the hand holding the knife jammed in the door. So he was stuck, banging hard on the glass panel in the door with the other arm, to try and smash it. I leant on the door, forced the knife out of his hand and then started to slice at his hand with it. Very quickly there was blood everywhere and his ruined fingers were hanging off at the hinges.
Even when I woke up this morning, I was so unsure that it was really a dream, I stumbled into the kitchen, vaguely looking for blood or some evidence that he’d been there.