Block Party Continued

Here's some very belated pictures to complement my writings about the Nelson Street Graffiti Art Project in Bristol last month:

Woolmersdon Walnut Thief

I was in Somerset for work last week, so thought I'd stay at mum's. She offered me a lift on my second morning, and on our way past the neighbours' driveway (which runs along the length of our garden) we spotted a ruddy-faced rogue conspicuously foraging for walnuts - collecting his loot into a Quality Street tub, with his van parked where the drive entrance meets the road.

The loot belonged to my mum. The poor ravaged tree sits prettily at the corner of the garden, a few branches innocently over-hanging the fence. Initially, mum carried on driving past this heinous crime scene but I was outraged and we pulled over a short way up the road. My anger helped to fuel mum's fire so we made a swift u-turn and headed back to confront the old codger walnut thief.

Derek Irish is one of many 'local characters' that mum knows to be wary of - she said she wouldn't be surprised if he'd been casing the tree for weeks - waiting for the prime time for preying on the golden-cased gems, with the intention of selling his bounty to a local fruit and veg vendor.

I just couldn't believe the gall of this twerp - it was 8.30am in the morning, broad daylight, bright as brass.

Mum pulled up into the verge and wound my window all the way down.

She said, "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"

Derek idles over, with a slight hobble (attempting a sympathy vote?), leans right into the car, resting both elbows on the window frame. Taking a highly conspicuous look at my chest, he says, "Just collecting the dropped ones, I got permission."

We were both aghast.

Mum says, "They belong to me and you do not have my permission."

Irish says, "You can have 'em love. But I got permission... from the boss."

We both laugh in shocked dismay.

Mum says, "No, the tree is mine, my ex doesn't live here any more - and even if he did say you could take them, it's not his concern now."

Irish remained cocky, contented to commence battle. "I've got a witness."

Mum, "I don't care, I want you you off my walnuts, now."

Irish, "My misses was a witness, she'll tell you."

Irish kept a wry smile on his weathered face during this entire interplay - leaning dangerously close to me, so much so that I had to turn towards mum in order to avoid his ghastly gaze.

Mum says, "That doesn't mean anything to me, please just leave."

The persistent git had more, "Just taking the ones from the floor love..."

Mum, "It's stealing, please leave."

Mum begins to release the hand break, his elbows slip off the window sill. His glare is fixed on us, but he begins to step back. The yappy little dog in his van begins to bark and jump up against the glass.

I haven't come across anyone quite so horrid, abrasive and determined in a long time. The bloody cheek of it. Mum said that she wouldn't be surprised if Irish was eying-up other neighbourhood trees - what a joke. He'll probably come back, perhaps or perhaps not with more stealth.

When we returned from work, mum gathered as much of her bounty as possible and will no doubt harvest every kernel with fevered protectiveness from this day forward. Walnut thieves of Woolmersdon - beware!