It's not often you get to say this sentence:
"This evening, a man driving a large, American pick-up lost control, mounted the kerb and destroyed my bin and gas meter"
Not a regular occurrence, I'm sure you'll agree. Pretty much what you read above is what happened; I'm sat minding me own watching telly when I hear a loud crunching noise. Thinking there was some automative carnage appertaining I had a butcher's. I found myself staring face to face with the driver of said pick-up, as he apologetically began to reverse over my already flattened bin.
To be fair, the bin is relatively unscathed, but the box that covers the gas meter is toast. It could have been a lot worse. He could've bust my house. I could have had a gas leak. He could have severed my Sky cable. All's well that ends well to be honest. He'll pay for the damage and stump up for a new gearbox and sump (that'll be cheap). The council have sanded the liquid and the cops (God bless 'em) once again provided a superlative service getting his details and sorting the whole debacle out.
People who know my house will be familiar with this clown. He drives a giant American car which has been dubbed "The Westwoodmobile", given its gangster leanings. In reality he actually looks like Mr. Belding of "Saved by the bell" fame, and now the Westwoodmobile is dead. Bare deng, I'm sure you'll agree.
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