"Stop having bonfires when we've got our washing out. Please."

"It's not a bonfire, it's an incinerator."

"Still gets ash all over my kecks."

Scene: the pool room of the Posh Pub, conversation between my mate no-nickname-yet Ed and Mrs Typecast Landlord. The Typecast Landlord, so-called because he always plays the same character in the am-dram, whatever the play, is always burning cardboard in his car park in the mornings. Ed lives over the back.

Only just started going back into the Posh Pub since they had a bit of a Falling Out with the school over blocking up the carpark at picking-up time. Storm in a teacup stuff, with the carpark shut at ten to three with a 'customers only' sign. Plenty of parking in the Pikey Pub and in the street, so no real worries. (Note to self: come up with a better name for the Pikey Pub). Except for one misguided soul, who takes it upon himself to toss a brick with a note saying 'no car park, no windows' through the window of the pub at two in the morning one day. Identity of tosser, of course, kept the village gossiping for days. Mr and Mrs TL vastly not amused about Serious Criminal Damage, police phoned, fingerprints taken. No tosser yet.

It turns out that neighbours of no-nickname-yet Ed have also complained about said ash.

Mrs Typecast Landlord, to Ed:"Your neighbours have been complaining since they moved in."

Me: "They'd even mentioned it to me. Don't say I told you for goodness' sake."

Mrs TL:"Did they? They ring us up nearly every time we light the bloody thing."

Ed:"Ring you up? Everyone knows that the best way to complain is to tie a note to a brick and chuck it through your window."

Lucky not to be barred for spraying mouthful of best bitter across floor.