It Resolves Itself As Expected.

And is probably nowhere near as interesting as people have imagined.

I’d always had my suspicions about ex-friend and ex-landlord Seven-Foot Sociopath.

Yes he’s very tall. Yes he spends an awful lot of time at the gym. Yes he favours ‘survivalist’ combat attire. Yes he has an alarming collection of knives and guns, as well as tattoos and piercings. Claims to know ‘some things’ about explosives.

But I get the feeling he’s a tourist. I know one properly mental man like this – but without the unnecessary tatts and holes in his face – and I know the real deal when I see it.

And I’d seen Seven-Foot back down from a couple of confrontational situations in the past.

“Scared of the damage I might do mate.”

Ok then. Maybe.

“Bullshit aside, we’re always mates and you’ve got to do what’s best for you. No hard feelings.” He said upon my leaving him in the lurch with his horrible flat when I moved out.

I leave his poxy gaff in much better condition than I first encountered it, and take his two large ceramic plant-pots (planters?) with me. The bulbs I planted in them cost a fortune, made the patio look ‘pretty’ and I couldn’t be arsed with the re-planting when I had sofas to move. He’s in Paris, I thought. I’ll get them back to him when I have a minute. They’ve been obviously unused for years so I doubt it’s a problem.

Five Days Ago.

I am at work, it is the middle of the afternoon.

For reasons that I shall get to another time, my little sister is renting my spare room. She is self-employed, cannot work because of the fucking weather and is at home when one would imagine my house to be empty.

There is some commotion outside my back-yard.

There is no ‘road’ on my street as it is a terrace of what used to be called ‘miners cottages’ that I believe are peculiar to the North of England. The door to our back-yard is open and Sis spies Seven-Foot in his perpetually non-road-worthy ridiculous bull-horned four wheel drive idiot wank-tank vehicle STUCK on the access road behind my home and spinning his wheels.

Sis: Seven-Foot! Do you want a hand? I’ve got a shovel.

She’s made a small side-line in digging stranded vehicles out of the virtually 45-degree slope of an access road behind my house and could do this in her sleep. (She’s more of a man than I am in this regard. I mean. I just couldn’t be bothered. You know.)

Seven-Foot: NO! I DON’T NEED ANY HELP!

Sis: If you’re sure. I don’t mind.

SF: I DON’T APPRECIATE YOU STEALING MY PROPERTY!

At this point in hearing the story I begin to wonder what the hell he’s doing behind my house anyway. It’s an access road, doesn’t lead anywhere and he doesn’t know anyone on my street.

SF: AND YOU HAD YOUR DOG IN THE FLAT.

Sis: Look. Are you sure you don’t want some help….

SF: NO! I DON’T WANT ANY HELP. GET YOUR BROTHER TO CALL ME!

Sister proceeds to retreat to the house, make herself a cup of tea and watches Seven-Foot struggle FOR A SOLID HOUR to get his foolish over-powered behemoth of an impractical vehicle moving.

As I say, not as interesting as it could have been but an Event nonetheless; nothing much happens to me.

I reflect upon Sister’s story. This much is obvious:

Seven-Foot knows what street I have moved to. As opposed to utilizing my phone number like an adult man, he has taken it upon himself to do some sort of imagined SAS-style rescue mission to liberate his fucking plant pots. And has embarrassed himself terribly.

I, on the other hand, am quite cross about this.

He can lurk about the back of my house to his hearts content. I live behind the police station and have seen said police attempt to move my new neighbours on if they take more than twenty seconds to open their front door. And on top of that I can take care of myself.

That’s not the problem. He’s been rude to a member of my family. A girl. A girl better physically equipped to take care of herself than me admittedly, but a girl nonetheless.

And I’m not fucking having it.

I scratch my head for a bit.

I could call him. A sort of ‘If I fucking see you anywhere near my home’ sort of conversation that will end in some bullshit masculine shouting and get nowhere. I could text him. Some sort of ‘odd coincidence you being out the back of my house’ passive-aggressive shit that I’m not so fond of these days.

Or I could leave it. Because it’s silly and it WILL blow over. There’s no point getting worked up when he’s embarrassed himself already.

But that would be ‘backing-down’ by default.

And he was rude to my sister. If I leave it I’ll have let that pass. And that isn’t ‘how I roll’.

Four Days Ago.

I send a simple text. “Give me a call when you get a second.”

Not aggressive as such but not friendly. I am pleased with the tone. It’s not threatening. It’s not pleasant.

Three Days Ago.

“Perhaps he’s busy.” Says my Sister.

Two Days Ago.

“Really fucking busy.” I think to myself.

Today.

No word.

I suspect the same response tomorrow. And if I receive an invite to meet in him in a deserted car-park I would take it because he’s been rude to someone I care about and backing-down is not one of my big things.

But it seems my original suspicions were right. A coward. Brave enough to be aggressive to a girl in her twenties but not able to muster the courage to get back to her big brother who is actually half her size.

Case closed.

Absolute nonsense and anti-climax.