By Chris Graham
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Justin, a young, successful, marketing executive, was spending an unexpectedly springlike April the first doing a bit of property maintenance on his beautiful Georgian house in the suburbs. The house had a nice wooden porch on it but the paint was getting a bit weathered so he’d sanded it all down and was getting ready to give it a coat of paint.
He was checking that the primer was dry when he saw a young chav walking up his garden path. Musing on why these kids couldn’t wear their ridiculous baseball caps the right way round, he was just about to challenge him when the teenager spoke.
“Gottennyoddjobzyerwontdun?” the lad spouted, so quickly that it took a bit of deciphering, “I’m cheap,” he added.
Justin was a bit taken aback, he’d never heard of a chav who actually wanted to work, but he still declined the offer, suggesting the kid tried next door, which the boy agreed to do.
He was just about to return to his porch when his mobile rang. He answered it.
He was needed, right now, to help a colleague in tying up some loose ends with a client he was meeting at the golf club. The colleague said he would pick him up in ten minutes. Justin began to clear up his tools.
He'd just been thinking that perhaps he’d been a bit dismissive of the young chav who’d called earlier, when he noticed the teenager walking out of the next door’s gate. Justin called him over.
“Look… if you’re still looking for work… I’ve just been called away, would you be able to put a coat of paint on my porch? Only I’d hate to miss the dry weather, and it really needs to be done.”
The youth nodded, “Yeah… OK, mate… Fanx.” A price was agreed. Justin showed the kid the brushes in the pot on the window sill.
“There's a tin of pale blue paint just inside the garage door,” he nodded towards the double garage, “I won”t be long… thanks.”
In the road outside, a black BMW screeched to a halt. Justin ran out and got in. With a squeal of tyres, the car drove off.
A couple of hours later Justin returned to find no sign of the chav. There was no sign of any painting having been done either, nothing, just the step ladder standing exactly where Justin had left it.
“Oh well,” he thought to himself, “What’s twenty quid, compared to the bonus from that deal?” He shrugged, then folded up the steps.
It was too late to paint it now, the air was starting to feel a bit damp and it would soon be dark, so he put the steps back into the garage.
After he’d hung them on the garage wall, he turned to gaze on a powder blue 911Turbo with a beautiful hand painted finish.
It used to be red.
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Click to see: Crime stories by Chris.