He was a reformed cat burglar. He’d done his time, he’d picked up carpentry and he was on the straight and narrow. But sometimes memories of past thrills on roof tops, balancing by window sills and clutching onto gutters flooded his thoughts. On such days, he would cancel his appointments and drive through the streets, scouting out high up places.
When he found a run down window, crooked on its hinges with flaky patches of paint and crumbling corners of rotting wood, and high enough to satisfy his cat burglar standards, he would screech to a stop. He’d strap on his belt, stretch his old balaclava over his head (it still fit like a glove!) and so he’d start his ascent, heart racing, grinning like a fool in love. Once he reached the window, he checked out the cracks and gaps in its frame, pushing here and there with his left hand whilst clutching the roof tiles with his right. Then he would take out his tools and begin his work, perched on the gutters, no scaffolding to diminish the thrill. He would glance round nervously to make sure no one caught him sanding down the wood, filling in the holes, resetting the window, repainting the frames, and securing the roof tiles, until the window looked good as new and he sneakily descended back to his van unseen.
