A neighbour of a friend heard a group of boys playing football outside in the street on Saturday afternoon. Occasionally the ball would bang against the wall of his terraced house. He got up to look out of the window.
He saw one boy deliberately kick the ball at the side of his car. He opened the window and told him to cut it out.
The boy responded with with two fingers and an obscenity.
The man went out of his back door, along the path behind the terrace and approached the boys unawares. He took hold of the offender and gave him a smart slap around the back of the head. The boys ran off.
You've guessed it. That evening. Tap, tap, tap on the bloody door. 'Good evening, Sir,' said one of the two policemen. The man told his story precisely and truthfully. The policemen were sympathetic but informed him that he might be prosecuted. So be it, thought the man.
Sunday morning, another knock on the door. It was the boy himself, accompanied by what could only be his father. Our 'vigilante' had his first moment of concern, expecting an argument, maybe even violence born out of clan loyalty.
'Are you the bloke who clobbered my son?' said the father.
'That's right.'
'Right.' The father nudged the boy, who muttered an apology, which our hero accepted.
'Don't worry about the police,' said the father. 'It wasn't my idea.'
The conversation continued over a cup of tea.
This little anecdote has done much to restore my faith in human nature.
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