Obviously I'm a mild mannered man with an unending love for humankind, and I only ever see the best in people. But god, I hate my neighbours. Well, some of them. Well, one of them. Sometimes. I came home last night to find that my wheelie bin and my shiny new recycling bin had both been stolen from their home at the bottom of my steps, presumeably by some kind of criminal scum with a refuse problem.

Except they hadn't. Oh no, they've been moved because they spoil the appearance of Tudor Close. A recycling bin is not an appropriate addition to the time-honoured landscape of the street. Obviously a couple of broken down cars with flat tyres and smashed headlights, which have been there for about three years, are FINE. But wheelie bins, no.

Naturally I get no say in this. I only live here. So anyone who wants to wait until I go out for the day, and then move my property, is free to do so. But the interesting thing is that my bins have been transplanted into the backyard, which, as per my tenancy agreement, is a no-go area for me. I only rent the flat, the backyard is not included. Meaning I have to commit an act of trespass every time I want to recycle a milk carton. I may be forced to throw my rubbish out of my kitchen window, and hope that with practice I can get it into the bin. Although that doesn't help the people who live underneath me, who are going to be thrilled when they find me waking them up early every Wednesday morning, when I have to break into their backyard and wheel my bin past their bedroom window, an act which will set their dogs barking for the following hour.

I'm tempted to wreak a terrible revenge by... um... tutting a bit and behaving in a generally frosty manner whenever I walk past the flat of those responsible. But I believe they may be planning to go and see Shotley Drama Group's production of 'Those Were the Days' later this week. So frankly their punishment awaits them.