“Mum can you bring down the graffiti remover please,” I bellowed up to the back of the house where my mother was making us both morning coffee, “it’s in the cupboard to the left of the dishwasher–top shelf.”
“Ok luv,” she called back. “Everything alright?”
“No Mum. I was hit again last night.”
It’s a silly situation really, one that I now realise would have best been left alone. Coming home late from a party one night I came upon three youths tagging the wall in front of my home. A less than enjoyable exchange ensued with threats made (from both sides mind you). Since then my home is periodically plastered in graffiti.
I used to sit up in the dark by my bedroom window with a flashlight like a novice vigilante waiting for my offenders. They knew I hid behind windows. I’m sure they found me amusing and outfoxed me every time. I soon tired of the situation and decided I had better things to do. I couldn’t beat them so I simply ignored them. The tagging became more aggressive in style with huge letters, numbers and random shit—such a massive drag.
They tagged, I cleaned and repainted providing them with a clean canvas each time.
“Have you thought of asking Mickey down the road if he needs any extra painters? He’s always overbooked in the summer.” Mum called down.
She’s spectacular that woman, I cherish her visits. She lives in a country with a dull, wet climate yet always brings the sunshine with her.
Mickey was happy to at least speak with the boys to see if they could come to some place of reasoning. Together we stayed up late one night across the street in his van and confronted the vandals upon their arrival. It was interesting to see how differently they behaved when confronted by a man; they were just boys really. They worked the entire summer with Mickey and my home went untouched. By summer’s end they we’re let go to commence their studies. Bored out of their minds for school was the last place they ever intended to visit–the graffiti returned.