My Life as a Thief
I can distinctly remember many times when I have felt that terrible, guilty night time dread that is the consequence of juvenile crime. Although, I can only really recall a few episodes of childhood larceny.

It was one summer in the early 90s, and i must have been ten years old or so. I had befriended James, an enthrallingly charming if slow-witted thug whose family owned much of the farmland surrounding my home town. We spent our days enjoying the sort of marvellous childhood adventures that would send today's parents into a blind panic; exploring the fields and local villages, camping out in the woods, building fires, treehouses and rope-swings, firing air-rifles, catching and breeding wild mice, torturing and killing animals- good wholesome stuff now sepia-tinted with nostalgia.

James gave me a flick-knife that I always carried round with me 'for protection'. Hmm. That bit seems a little less romantic. As does the early introduction to sluttish girls, pornography and booze. James also introduced me to shoplifting, which was very easy to do with one of us cute whippersnappers distracting the shopkeep and the other filling his pockets with sweets, crisps, chocolate, Pogs (remember Pogs?), dinosaur trading cards, magazine freebies and cans of coke.

One day, coming back to the farmhouse after a particularly successful haul, we find James' mum in the kitchen. She is eating a packet of Walker's cheese and onion crisps and is very pleased to see her rapscallion son and his polite, nervy friend. Now- most of you should remember when Walker's ran that promotion of putting little blue sachets of real money or vouchers in with your crisps. Yes? Good. Well- James' mum offers me a crisp, and as I stuff my grubby paw into the packet, I feel that unmistakable square of blue plastic. She hadn't noticed it. Quick as a flash, I palm it expertly and cover my crime by taking a big handful of that disgusting potato snack.
"Cheeky." She says. She doesn't know the half of it.

I sneak off to the toilet to examine my spoils, an lo and behold, within the shiny sachet is a real five pound note. I remind the reader that in those days five pounds could purchase more chocolate than could be eaten in one sitting. A truly wonderful windfall for a ten year old child.

Soon I am excitedly telling James about my exploits, showing him the note, and expecting waves of approval and appreciation from my mentor in crime. His brow darkens. His fists clench. He snatches the fiver and proceeds to give me the beating of my life. He takes my sweets and Pogs and leaves me as a bruised and bloody pulp in the chicken barn.
"Nobody steals from my Mum." He says.

My days as a thief were over.

That is, until last week, when I started this temp job in the office that I am sitting in right now. I haven't done a lick of work since I got here, and have instead been reading b3ta every day from nine till half five. I don't think I'll be caught, either.

This is my first post. I hope you enjoyed it, because my contract doesn't end for another three weeks. L x
(leviticus no longer likes the cut of your gib on, Tue 15 Jan 2008, 11:31, 2 replies)

SCUM!
Well written post, but don;t you know you NEVER thieve from 'your own'?!

It must be the idyllic country upbringing. If you'd been properly raised on a council estate, you might have a proper set of morals!
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Tue 15 Jan 2008, 11:42, closed)

POGS!
Yes I remember them! Brilliant things
( morrybyte made a subtle namechange at, Tue 15 Jan 2008, 13:12, closed)