Good Neighbours?

I ask you, do I look liked the kind of person who throws sausage rolls at their neighbours? OK, so I know that none of you actually do know what I look like (except my friend Andrea, who is deluded enough to read this stuff on a regular basis - I fear there is no hope for her), but I can assure you all, that I most definitely don't look like that sort of person. I don't look in the mirror every morning and think: Ha! Sausage roll thrower! Getting back to the sausage rolls, the reason I ask this question is because, approximately a week ago, just as I was finally getting to grips with the story which was to become Pornucopia, my creative flow was rudely interrupted by a knock on the door. Now, this pissed me off for several reasons. Not only did it disrupt my writing, but I've also recently installed a new doorbell, which, unlike its predecessor, actually works - but nobody ever uses the bloody thing! Anyway, upon opening my front door - after a series of expletives which doubtless could clearly be heard through the open front window - I was confronted by some bloke in a t-shirt and smoking a fag. He proceeded to tell me that he lived across the back from me (apparently he's on the other side of the high wall running along the back of the terrace of houses I live in), and that rubbish was being thrown into his garden. When I didn't comment and simply gave him a stony stare, he added that he'd just been subjected to a fusillade of sausage rolls. At this point I think my expression must have been shouting "weirdo", "looney" and "crackpot", as he began to stammer and back away. I just shut the door on him, shaking my head.

I've no idea if he repeated his performance at other houses on the terrace, or whether, indeed, he really does live in the house which backs onto my back garden. But I do think that it is a bloody cheek to go around implying to complete strangers that you suspect them of throwing party snacks at them (actually, I didn't think to ask if they were cocktail-style sausage rolls, full size, or even giant ones. I mean, if it was the giant ones, then the incident might have been serious - one of those could be quite painful if it hit you in the eye). Perhaps I would have taken him more seriously if he'd said that the sausage rolls had been accompanied by either those bits of cheese or cocktail sausages on sticks - those sharpened cocktail sticks can be bloody dangerous. Anyway, my concentration was completely broken by this loon and I was forced to abandon writing the story until the next day, and went to the pub instead. Why can't I have normal neighbours like everyone else? Meanwhile, I must assume that the phantom sausage roll flinger is still out there somewhere. God knows who his or her next victim will be - just so long as they don't come knocking on my door.