matt's 101 in 1001

As I may or may not have mentioned (I'm too lazy to check), Souf-Eas' London is perhaps the least scrupulous part of the city. And my home borough of Lewisham, which lies within Souf-Eas' London, is less scrupulous still. I can only conclude that the reason the Lewisham Metropolitan Police website has not been updated since August - the most recent entry details an explosion - is because they are so busy that their net geeks have been deployed onto the streets to fight crime.

Fortunately - and I'm partly telling the truth and partly being a pretentious git - my street appears to be an anomaly. The mildly ostentatiously-named Cressingham Road lies innocently just off the Lewisham High Street. Lined with quaint Victorian-era houses, rather than 60s-era council flats, Cressingham Road is home to families, both young and old, each taking part in a geographical game of Russian Roulette by living in this neck of the woods. Okay, so I exaggerate for dramatic effect. But still, I thought our sanctuary was safe.

I was getting ready for bed on Saturday night at around 2:00am (why was I up that late? None of your business, and quit interrupting my story!) when I spotted three suspicious-looking chaps looking, as you would expect, suspicious. They were standing on the opposite side of the street wearing thick jackets, dark beanies and other miscellaneous accessories that personify criminal activity. À la Hitchcock's Rear Window, I switched off my lamp, mentally ignoring the fact that the intensity of the street light outside made me clearly visible anyway, and settled in to watch what I assumed - and guiltily hoped - were some kind of nefarious goings-on.

"What could it be?" I pondered, intently spying on three people essentially doing nothing at all (albeit at two in the morning outside my house). "It could be some kind of drug deal... Those big jackets could easily contain several kilograms of Colombian pure," I thought to myself in my best Don Johnson voice.

"Perhaps it's an arms deal," I mused, rather exotically. "I'm sure they usually happen on the borders of ex-Soviet countries, but Lewisham may well be as dangerous. But not Cressingham Road, surely! Perhaps they're lost? Should I offer them directions?" I glanced over at my pocket London street directory, which is roughly the size of Michael Crichton's new novel. "No, in the time it takes me to locate a pen and paper with which to transcribe my instructions, I may have missed whatever is transpiring."

I shifted my eyes back down toward the three chaps, who hadn't moved. I could only surmise they were deciding which volcano to hollow out as part of their grand scheme of world domination.

"Maybe I should call the police," I wondered. "I'm sure they could provide these gentlemen with sufficient advice to ensure they reach their desired destination."

As if by psychic command, a police wagon arrived on the scene. I settled back into my chair, wishing I had been cooking popcorn, rather than trying to find my own street within the hundreds of pages of street maps in my directory.

A police officer got out of the van and looked toward the men, one of whom lowered his beanie over his eyes, presumably in an effort to remove his identity entirely. Only, instead of approaching these brutes and having some sort of Mexican standoff, the officer moved to the back of the van and opened the doors.

Then, in a twist of unprecedented beauty, two of the men grabbed the third and hurled him into the back of the vehicle. The doors were slammed shut and the police officer jumped back in the front seat and drove off. The two remaining men hopped into a nearby hatchback and followed.

"A sting! Right in my street!" I thought excitedly. "It's like C.S.I.: Souf-Eas' London!"

My street's not the crime-free haven I once thought it was, but if two out of every three suspicious-looking people in Cressingham Road are police officers, I like those odds!