"Can I help you?" asked the man under the umbrella.
"Well, no, not really, I'm waiting for a friend to arrive." I was stood in the carpark.
"Only we have had some burglaries," said the man, crossly, "And I can see you're wandering around."
I spread out my palms. "I am empty handed," I shrugged. "Just waiting. I'm staying in Flat 70, if you're worried."
"I am worried," he said. I realised he was a weaselly, disappointed looking man. I took against. "This is a neighbourhood watch area, see."
I turned to walk away, popping my headphones back in - it was The Archers (oh Will! Oh Emma! Oh Ed! The Grundy family meltdown). As I walked on, I realised the man was screaming at me, a sentence which ended "-NOT EVEN SORRY!"
"I am sorry," I said. Plainly neither understanding nor meaning it.
I wandered off around the carpark. He stood, watching me from the porch for a while. I got a text ("It's too wet! sorry!x"), so pottered back inside. He had gone.
I went back indoors, up in the lift, and back to my flat. As I unlocked the door, I heard a noise behind me. I turned around.
There, at knee length, peeping around the corner, was the weasel man. A grin on his face. "Go on," he said, licking his lips, "Let's see if the key fits. If it doesn't, then we'll call the police."
The key fit.
"Well," he said, "Perhaps next time you'll be more polite in a neighbourhood watch area."
He began to rant, boringly, still crouched over. He shouted about burglaries, my foul manners, and how I'd like it if my car was broken into.
"I don't own a car."
"So you don't care about the rest of us! I SEE!"
"Well, not personally, but I do generally. I was merely saying I don't own a car. Do carry on."
"No. I can't be bothered with people like you." And, with a glare, his head vanished back around the corner.
At that point, I shut the door. It's the first time I've ever been terrorised by the Neighbourhood Watch. Is this the kind of thing I can expect from my thirties?