I’m lugging some big, black bags to some large bins, through a globally warmed monsoon. It is mid-morning. I spot some “youths” huddling behind said bins, failing to hide. Five of them, two girls, three boys, probably 6th formers bunking the local, whizzo Academy. They regard me sheepishly – an intrusive, glum pensioner in the toxic rain – through a fug of thick smoke. They’re smoking dope.
One boy rolls Rizlas, skins up. They giggle stupidly with illegal smiles. Shall I shop them? Shall I lecture them? Probably not. I don’t need the grief or the verbals and, besides, I’ve paid my debt to society. Now it’s your turn.
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