Daylight Robbery.

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 The crunch of gravel echoed under my new trainers in a very satisfying way. Calming almost. I looked sharp, even though I said so myself. Actually, I had to say so myself, because nobody else would. Philistines. Anyway, I strolled round a bend in the pathway, it was a beautiful day, sun, warm, trees doing that wafty tree thing, birds doing that hoppy, pecky bird thing. Idyllic. And then, bugger me, there’s some tosser doing over some old biddy. I was less than impressed. I'd seen him snatch the old lady's purse. I went forward to try and stop him but then he looked over to me. The old lady was screaming blue murder for help, but the bloke didn’t give a monkeys. He pointed at me, pushing the grandma over. “I’m f*ckin’ ‘avin’ you mate,” he shouted, his face twisted in a snarl and then he came for me.


Now look, I’m as brave as anyone right. No really. But he was, well, big. And snarly. And he meant it. Time for my new trainers to earn their keep. Bravely leaving the nice old lady to continue screaming the place down, I turned and ran as fast as my slightly higher than it should be BMI would allow. I could hear him coming. Escape was my preferred option at this point.


Legs pumping furiously, I tore back the way I’d come. Birds stopped doing the hoppy, pecky thing and got out the way, trees just carried on doing tree stuff. The gravel path decided to be treacherous and a bit slippy. But still, all that school cross country must have been for something, Right? The wind whipped past my ears, stealing what breath I had left,  which, frankly, wasn’t a lot. He was gaining. I swerved onto a narrow side path, trainers skidding on loose stones. Approved by athletes, my arse, I thought, as one of the laces came loose. Branches lashed at my face, tearing at my clothes. I didn't dare look back.


The path twisted and turned, a bloody compost heap of overgrown foliage. My lungs burned, legs screaming in protest. But I pushed on, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Suddenly, the path opened into a clearing. A rickety wooden bridge spanned a gushing stream, the only way forward.


Hesitation was a luxury I couldn't afford. I launched myself onto the bridge, the aged planks groaning under my weight.


The bloke appeared at the other end. ‘Oh bollocks,’ I thought.


He caught me, obviously. It wasn’t good. I put up a brave fight by whimpering a lot and hiding my head and tackle as much as I could while he kicked the living daylights out of me.


And then, bugger me, the old lady turned up. Only now she had her walking stick in her hand. A good solid aluminium thing, one of those extendable ones with a fat grey rubber ferrule. She started to twat the bloke around the head and shoulders with it.


“Get up and help me out here,” she shouted at me. I did what I was told.


I’ll tell you something now, that might be a useful life lesson. Don’t mess with old ladies who carry big sticks. They’re well hard. She got him a couple of crackers in the eyes and one in the throat. As he gasped for breath, clutching at his now ruined Adam’s apple, she whacked him properly in the nuts. He went down and she jabbed him hard in the ear. Three times. He bled a surprising amount. The old lady didn’t say much, just nailed him, like she was doing the ironing or something. Sirens wailed, the cops turned up. As usual they arrived when everything was done and dusted. She got her handbag back. My new trainers were shot. A hundred and fifty quid. Useless.


“I’ve left my shopping trolley somewhere,” the old lady said.


“I’ll help you find it,” I offered.

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