I had what was supposed to be a decorative shrub in my garden. It went in as a seedling and seemed to develop quite nicely. Actually, it developed very nicely, growing quickly to hide what had been a vacant section. Then it started moving in on other plants, taking over their space, surrounding and choking them.
As time passed I just kept all the bushes trimmed and didn't really notice how this bush had prospered. It wasn't until I went out one day and saw that one bush had taken over half the garden and was still going strong that I realised that I might have a problem. It was currently taking up an area about thirty feet long and about ten feet deep, standing six feet high, and must have displaced a number of other shrubs and plants. It was only that small because of some vigorous trimming.
I did not want a front garden that consisted of one giant bush so I hired the local handyman to remove it. One bush, and with that gone the front yard seemed almost twice as large. I decided to put some edging around the surviving garden and put down some lawn where the giant bush had been.
I tidied up the soil and put down seed and watered it and the grass grew quite nicely up to the point where it all died. I asked a horticulturist what the hell was wrong. This giant bush had flourished there but now not even weeds would grow. What was going on?
Effectively, the giant bush had totally drained the soil. All I could do was toss down some fertilizer and some decent top soil and keep the grass watered and eventually it would recover. My best bet was some sort of runner grass like couch. It only needed a few areas to settle in and it would spread across the bare patch.
So that's why I was spending some time on a Saturday afternoon hosing down what looked like a patch of mud. If you looked closely you could just see touches of green as the grass struggled to take hold. I was quietly confident that the lawn would develop satisfactorily.
While I was doing this a nice little coupe was driving down the street, top open, and a charming little dear at the wheel. I knew the young lady driving in a roundabout sort of way.
She spotted me as she was driving past and slammed on her brakes. A good thing there was no-one behind her or she'd have been rear-ended. She pulled over, hopped out of the car and came storming over to me.
"You asshole," she shrieked at me. "Do you know how much trouble you got me in?"
Quite a lot, I hoped, but how she knew I was the culprit was something I'd be interested in finding out. To give you a bit of background, I'd been at the local mall, minding my own business, which is my normal practise. When I was leaving I saw this young lady in a coupe, the one currently parked next to my place as a matter of fact, trying to reverse out of the carpark. She managed to clip the car opposite her quite hard, leaving a noticeable dent.
So we have one irate young lady and one dented car. (Two if you count hers.) She changed gears and the engine roared but her little car stayed just where it was. I heard her gears grind again as she sought the right gear and the engine roared again. Partial success, I guess, as her coupe sure moved, but only partial success as it moved in the wrong direction, banging her victim again, harder, this time.
The young lady used a few words that I'm quite sure her mother never taught her, looked for another gear, and managed to move forward and into the driveway proper. There she stopped, got out, and walked back to look at the car she hit. Apparently not satisfied with the damage her car had caused she hauled off and kicked the car, denting another panel. Then she drove off.
I waited around and a little while later another charming young lady came out and almost burst into tears when she saw the state of her car. I approached her and introduced myself.
"Did you do this?" she asked, waving at her car.
"No," I said, holding up my phone, "but I have some excellent photos of the person who did, including the car and licence plate. Do you have Bluetooth?"
I sent her the pictures, along with the advice that she let her insurance company have them.
"I can do better than that," she said with a nasty smile. "I'll show them to my father. He's a cop."
I bowed to her greater wisdom and departed the field.
So at a guess I had a pretty good idea how much trouble the young lady had been in. Several traffic offences and an insurance company wanting her blood. Her money, preferably, but they would accept blood.
The point is I hadn't told the victim who I was apart from my first name. So how did the crappy driver locate me? (Still a crappy driver if the way she'd braked was any indication.)
Back to her question - did I know how much trouble I got her in?
"Ah, no," I said slowly, blatantly running my eyes over her. She was certainly worth having eyes run over, followed by hands and tongue and etcetera, if you know what I mean, and you should. "You don't look pregnant and I'm pretty sure I'd remember if I'd done anything to get you pregnant."
"Fuck you, asshole," she yelled. "I'm not pregnant."
"So was that an invitation?" I asked. "I don't usually fuck on a first meeting but where you're concerned. . ." I was looking her over again.
"What? No. Don't be such an asshole. You know what I'm talking about."
"Ah, no, I'm afraid I don't. Why don't you elucidate."
She mentally skewered me with a burning sword. I could almost see her running me through, withdrawing the sword, and running me through again.
"You told the police about that little accident I had at the mall. Do you realise how much trouble that caused. I got huge fines and a whole heap of demerit points. If I have even a little speeding fine I'll lose my license. And there was the cost of fixing that old heap."
"And undoubtedly the cost of fixing your own car. Accidents are so expensive. Ah, what makes you think I told the police about the accident?"
"They told me," she grumbled. "They showed me the photos you took and said you were willing to come in to testify if I fought the charges. I had to plead guilty and that magistrate was so rude."
She shut up for a moment, fuming over how rude the magistrate had been.
"I'm sorry you've had such a rough time of it but I doubt that the police named me because I haven't spoken to them."
"Well your name and address was on the file as the photographer," she grumbled, "so you must have."
I wondered how the police got that information. My best guess was the victim probably took note of my number plate when I left and told them so they could trace me if they had to. Still, it was very careless to let an offender know witness details. I would certainly be chatting to someone about that.
"Well, it seems to me that if you'd been driving more carefully or if you'd stayed to exchange details you wouldn't have had these problems. Probably wouldn't hurt you to have some more lessons."
I turned away and continued watering my lawn-to-be.
"Listen, asshole," she yelled, grabbing my shoulder.
