#I kept my old prescription I got five years ago until this summer when my eye doctor was like have you not realized it’s gotten worse and I

[philsmeatylegss]

Sometimes I forget that my eyesight has gotten worse and I used to be able to lean away from my computer and be able to read the screen clearly and since school has started again and I need to read a lot on the computer you can not imagine how many times I’ve had my face pressed on the screen, still not really sure I’m reading it right, putting on my glasses, seeing how much clearer it is, and remember that’s why I got glasses in the first place. It’s literally insane. It was so blurry and now it’s clear. Huh, almost as if that’s what glasses are for

[creativeashproductions]

When the Pain Ends // Charlie Gillespie

Summary: Breaking up with your boyfriend ends with your broken hand, a broken heart and a trip to Canada. Getting out of Oklahoma for comfort of your younger brother Owen brings you into contact with a sweet Canadian.

Warnings: Swearing, hospital, cheating boyfriend, angst and bit of fluff

Words: 3.1k

Requested: No.

A/N: Tidbit of info is that I am a university student. I had last week off and I’m six minutes into my History Zoom Lecture. Here’s a little fic.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX PLEASE!

Masterlist

The scowl glued on your face as you waited in the ER for the results from the x-ray you had gotten back from minutes ago. A bag of ice on the swollen knuckles of your right hand still splattered in drops of blood. The same blood as the small drops on your shirt as well. If that didn’t put a scowl on your face, it was the next issue.

The reason for your visit to the ER was in bed next over complaining as a nurse checked his face. His eyes meeting yours in a blend of guilt, regret and fear almost. You couldn’t meet his eyes. You didn’t want to meet his eyes.

Let’s backtrack a little for a short history.

The summer after graduation, you had met a guy on the beach playing volleyball in need of another player. You joined, and then you fell for the guy just as he did for you. For the last three years, you were now twenty-one years old. Parker had been a really good guy. Until yesterday.

“Babe!” Parker sounded congested with the bandages held up his nose. He had been fighting the nurse to come to your side.

“Don’t call me that!” You hissed glaring at the tall boy with the auburn hair colour that had once been your favourite colour.

“C’mon it was a mistake-Ow!” Parker whined at the nurse applied more pressure as she cast a sympathetic glance at you. A small smile of thanks passed to the nurse who had maybe pressed a little no hard on Parker’s nose.

Your eyes rolled at the drama that was Parker when it came to injuries that had been his entire fault, to be frank. Your fist meeting his face? His fault for cheating. What did he expect? A congratulations? Screw that.

“Say anything else I swear I’ll hit the other ball.” You glared at the boy sending him to a fit, shaking fear of stupidity.

The beach was filled up with teens and adults with children on the nice weekend day out of the loud city. Originally you hadn’t been able to join Parker with your mutual friends, but something else had spurred you there. Instead of having the weekly movie night via FaceTime with your younger brother, you had other plans. A particular video sent by Parker’s best friend and his cousin too had brought you here. Livvy had grown close in the three-year relationship you had with her cousin.

Your fury filled gaze flickered around the beach and the grass in the large opening area of the waterfront. Finally, your eyes found Parker sitting with Livvy on the blanket on the grass with Steve. Livvy was the first to see with marching through the people spreading like a curtain from the angry girl.

“Hey, Parker!” You shouted at your boyfriend in a conversation with your other two friends. Parker’s smile grew just before it falters at your expression.

“Hey, Babe,” Parker spoke, climbing to his full five-foot-ten stature. Livvy’s smile pulled up in an amused smirk while Steve looked more confused.

“How was your weekend at your sick Granny’s house?” You came to a stop a foot away from him. Arms crossed just under your chest his thick eyebrows furrowed together.

“Uh…it was okay. She’s feeling better.” Parker nodded to himself tilting his head to the side, “It was-“

“I hope she better. Her treatment must have been incredible.” You replied, unfurling your arms to grab the phone from your back pocket.

Parker grew more confused, “What?”

“The doctor sure knew what he was doing. The prescription of ‘dicked down’ cured her illness and old age.” The whistle you made after your statement sounded, but you grew more satisfied with the circle of people behind you.

“Oh.” Steve choked, raising one fist to press against his mouth. By now Livvy had started recording on her phone.

Livvy and Parker may be cousins, but she loathed cheaters when it was the cause of her parents’ divorce. Parker’s lips parted as he paled. The click of the glass screen brought up a video of Parker and a brunette in a hot tub.

“Ba-“

“Fucking look at your actions.” You hissed stepping even closer, “Was it worth it? Jeopardizing a relationship with someone you share years of memories with? Years of love and trust? All for thirty seconds of fun? We both know you tend to…get too excited.”

“Oh shit,” Steve spoke, shifting his gaze between you and Parker like he was a bobblehead of Einstein. The very bobblehead that you had laughed giving Steve with his obsession over the legendary scientist.

“It just happened. I still love you. I just needed a- “Parker stumbled back bringing his hands to his face, “OW! You broke my nose!”

“Ouch.” You hissed shaking your aching hand coated in some blood that splattered your shirt from shaking the hand.

“What the hell! You bit…holy fuck!” Parker screamed as your foot came up between his spread legs, nailing his left nut. He collapsed onto the grass, struggling to hold his bleeding broke nose and his nuts.

“That’s what you get asshole.” You shouted, turning to Livvy, “Can you take me to the hospital?”

“Parker drove, I’ll drive you both there. Steve can keep you two from fighting.” Livvy spoke, ending the video to shove everything in the oversized beach bag.

Now it was hours later as per usual in most hospitals elongating the time you were forced to spend with your now ex-boyfriend. Livvy and Steve had gone home a while back. Parker continued trying to fix the unrepairable damage he had done.

“Y-“

“That’s it!” You exclaimed jumping down from the bed to storm over to Parker. You made a few steps before arms encircled your waist.

“Okay, Slugger.” The gritty voice of your father spoke tugging you as far away from your ex-boyfriend as possible, “As much I want to kill him, I think you broke his pretty-boy face enough.”

The anger drained from your body as you slumped against your dad anguish set in with a tsunami of hurt. Time melted as you broke in your father’s arm; missing the doctor giving information. Your hand was fitted with a cast, and next thing you were aware of it was in the car.

“You bruised hits nuts. Broke his nose.” Dad nonchalantly spoke, turning the steering wheel as he exited the hospital parking lot. He didn’t bother making small talk as he let you be quiet on the drive home.

You didn’t know what hurt more, the heartache or your broken hand stabilized in the brace. The clearing of a throat had your attention is drawn to the house you had grown up no doubt holding your upset mother.

“She’s not that mad.” Dad quietly spoke, handing your phone that had died during the time in the ER. You shot him a look at the inaccuracy of his statement because you both know she was angry.

“Her daughter just spent hours in a hospital with a dead phone. We both know she probably thought I was dead in a ditch.” You deadpanned as you both walked up to the door of the home in Norman, Oklahoma.

The door opened before you could reach for it, and a flurry of blonde hair attacked you in a hug. Your mother hugged then leaned away to scan your features. Catching the dried tear stains paired with the red-rimmed eyes.

“Sweetheart.” Dinah spoke, raising her hands to wipe the tears from your face only causing more to fall, “What’s wrong?”

“Parker cheated on me.” You mumbled melting into her arms in another round of tears, breaking your parents’ hearts.

Meanwhile in Vancouver, Canada

Owen loved his job and the people he had met, but he missed the weekly movie nights with his older sister. The Joyner siblings had gotten down pat a system of sync to have the same movie playing at the same time on FaceTime. Imagine his surprise when he got a text apologizing.

Virtual movie night postponed. It put him in a slump that greatly concerned his roommate at the decrease of excitement. Even the next day, he was sad like a kicked puppy.

“Bro? You good?” Charlie asked from his place in the kitchen, scanning his emails on his computer. Owen barely made his eyes, “Wasn’t movie night with your sister yesterday?”

Owen nodded, “Yeah she-“

As Owen had gone to explain his phone had dinged with a concerning message from his mother.

Mom: Have you heard from Y/N? She hasn’t come home.

Owen swiped out of the conversation to the most used one with you shared with him to send a mass of messages. All not even coming up as read by you. It was his stipulation that you had it one for his safe of mind.

“C’mon you little shit,” Owen grumbled, pressing your contact to call. It didn’t even ring, “Dead cell.”

Charlie’s full attention shifted to the younger guy sitting on their couch in the apartment they used during filming. As Owen started pacing, Charlie was over quick as a bunny to offer comfort to him. The boys had grown so close, with Jeremy too, that they knew how to help the other.

“Owen, you need to tell me what’s going on.” Charlie soothed the blonde with his eyes pleading with the teenager.

“My parents haven’t talked to my sister. She didn’t go home.” Owen admitted scratching at his chest when his chest tightened. The other immediately finding his pulse on his neck to ensure he still had a pulse.

“Oh shit.” Charlie retorted, tapping his foot on the hardwood floor trying to find the right words to help his friend.

For the next hour, the boys kept in contact with Owen’s family and checking your social media in shifts as they filmed. It was a slow day when Owen’s phone finally rang with his mother’s contact once more.

“Mom, did you find her?” Owen asked, picking at the skin on his lips pacing as he had all day. The level of anxiety had been perfect for the scene he had filmed as Alex.

“Yeah. Look, Owen, she needs to get out of Oklahoma. Do you have room for her?” Dinah asked her son periodically glancing in the living room at the lifeless young woman.

“Yeah. We have an extra room.” Owen supplied squeezing the phone in his grip, “How is she? What happened?”

“I’m letting her settle before I ask any questions, but her flight is in a bit. It was either you take her in, or we pay for a hotel room. Oh! I got this lego-“

“I have to get back to filming. I’ll call you tonight.” Owen told his mother as his thumb hit the record circle on his phone. Kenny waving him over to film a scene with Booboo that would be the last before heading home.

The over the counter pain pill went down with a swig of water in the airport waiting for Owen and his roommate. Owen had messaged you that he would pick you up on the way from the set in perfect timing.

“Y/N!” Owen cheered catching sight of your form hunched forward on the bench you had miraculously found empty. Your blank eyes seeing the blue of your younger brother.

Owen’s eyes widened in shock, “What the hell happened to your hand?”

Noncommittal, the girl walked by her brother with her luggage in the mission to get to the car. All you wanted was to burst into years under your blankets until the world turned again, when birds sang, and the word wasn’t painted in dull colours.

Just as it had during the ride from the hospital to the house, it was dead silent in the car with the barest sound of music. Owen and Charlie had been having a conversation with expressions with the tension in the backseat stifling.

“This is our place.” Charlie spoke, opening the apartment door with a flourish for the girl and her luggage. Your eyes scanned the modest apartment with minimal mess compared to the tornado devastation of Owen’s Oklahoma room.

“Okay.” You replied, watching as Owen rolled the luggage to the room you would use for the few weeks you would be here.

Once showered, dressed and settled, you retreated to the couch to watch a film with the two boys. Your mind fluttered between Beca’s blow out with her father and Jesse to the city of Norman. As if thinking of Parker manifested something your phone buzzed with notifications.

@/livvyjo: Go, girl! [video]

@/malia134: Parker goes down like the bitch he is!!!

@/notsteverogers: I got a front-row seat to the fight.

Those three comments on Livvy’s video had more support than hate plus the video itself was hilarious. It caught the entire confrontation from greeting the cheater to being pulled away to spend the ten minutes in the same car. The car you had hooked up in the backseat of in the years you dated him.

 “-The prescription of ‘dicked down’ cured her illness and old age.” The pure anger on your expression amused you.

“What are you watching?” Owen inquired from the couch he watched the movie from. It made up for the lack of a film last night.

“A girl punching her bag of shit ex-boyfriend. She almost ripped his face off in the hospital.” You softly replied with your thumb double-tapping Livvy’s post.

Charlie’s attention shifted from the pool mashup with the Barden Bellas to the pride evident in your tone. It was the first time he had heard you laugh during the few hours he had been in your presence.

“What movie?”

“Oh, you know Parker’s Dicked Down Adventures. Filmed free with an iPhone.” You spoke sliding down to sit flush to Charlie to show the video you refreshed.

Owen’s mouth opened, “He cheated on you? How stupid is he??”

“You have a mean right hook.” Charlie supplied replaying the video for the third time with a weird feeling in his gut. The confidence stirred a body warming heat in the Canadian actor unlike anything else he had felt before.

“Dad taught me.” You replied, slouching down in the plush couch with a tiny smiling, “The nurse heard what happened. She put excessive pressure for his actions. I overheard his diagnosis; nasty bruised testicle and a broken nose.”

Both boys winced at the description. Owen ditching Charlie’s side to sit beside you, leaving you in the middle of the boys.

“I almost attacked him before Dad dragged me out of the room.” You recounted snuggling into your younger brother’s side.

“Where are my keys?” Owen questioned his roommate, “We need them to drive to the airport. I need to kill the ass that hurt my sister.”

Your deft fingers grasped Owen’s wrist when he went to get up because, in all honesty, he probably would book a flight. He wouldn’t go through with the plan to physically hurt Parker, but Owen had a wicked tongue for insults.

You spent one month in Vancouver with your brother and his castmates from helping Maddie with her homework. Movie nights with Owen changed to include Charlie too. Shopping trips with Sav and Tori. Baking with Jadah. You became family with them.

All good things come to an end. You had settled back in Norman with brighter plans that didn’t involve relying on men. Movie nights still happened with the boys, but things got hectic. Virtual movie nights shifted to texting Charlie and calls.

“Hey dork.” Charlie spoke walking down the street in Vancouver to the restaurant he was meeting the cast at. His lips pulled back in a massive grin, hearing your voice.

“Hey Char!” You enthusiastically spoke, walking out of the building with more pep in your step at the voice of the man, “What’s up?”

“On my way for food with everyone. How are you feeling?” Charlie asked, rubbing his fingertips on the dark denim pants. The sound of your voice brightening up his day more than he thought possible.

“Ooh. I should let you go, huh?” You questioned shifting to hold the phone between your shoulder and chin. Fingers unlocked the new car you had bought with the money you had saved.

A nice change of money from selling the jewellery, clothes and other miscellaneous gifts Parker had given you. The necklace he gave you that once belonged to his grandmother had been given back to him. Other than that you had no interaction with the ass.

“I’d rather talk to you.” Charlie admitted biting his lip in concentration, “I have a question.”

“Okay. What’s your question?” You questioned as your phone connected to your car—Charlie’s voice coming through the car speakers.

“Filming is almost over. Do you have plans for New Years? I’d like you to see you again.”

His words set a flutter of butterflies moving in your stomach at his nervous confidence striking the new information. The change in your friendship had been felt on his side as well and while you usually would think one-month post cheating wasn’t long enough. Something about Charlie felt comfortable as if everything had been preparing to fall for him.

“I could fly-“

“I’d like to see where you grew up. Your favourite places and where you went to school. I want to know the little things that made you who you are.” Charlie spoke coming to a stop outside the restaurant, waiting for your answer.

Owen’s eyes pulled from his debate with Sacha and Jeremy to the nervous Canadian biting his lip outside the window. By the expression on his face, Owen couldn’t guess who he was talking about. It was the smile that had been appearing on Charlie’s face for the last two weeks you had been staying with them.

Charlie had fallen for Owen’s big sister, and he couldn’t think of anyone better. The bond between you and Charlie had been natural and magical to watch. It was kinda gross seeing his best friend and sister having heart eyes with each other. Yet, Owen had never liked Parker, but he loved the idea of having Charlie as a brother.

“Y-yeah. Of course, you can Char.” The flattering blush heated up your skin at the turn in the convo—a grin splitting on the two individuals with more than three thousand kilometres between them.

“Cool. I should join the cast. I’ll text you later.”

“Bye, Charlie.” You whispered to the boy looking out the window noticing something she had been oblivious to.

The world had regained the colour, the birds sang again, and the world turned once more. All because a boy helped her heal.

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[shannaintherye]

Little Lily Pad

Summary: Dan gets his wisdom teeth removed and Phil is there to help his loopy best friend.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: drugs (prescription), maybe swearing

A/N: I’ve been going through my ao3 and I decided to post this little one shot here. Please keep in mind that this is 2 years old and my writing has since improved. I still thought this was a cute idea, hence why I’m uploading. :) enjoy.

"Thank you for coming with me, Phil," Dan said, seated next to his best friend in the backseat of his mum's car. "I'm sorry you had to miss school, though,"

"Are you kidding? I get Friday off and I get to video you afterwards," he laughed, waving his phone teasingly. Dan snatched it, unlocking it, and taking about seven derpy pictures before Phil got it back.

"Set that as your lock screen," he laughed, pointing toward the one where he had five chins. "And you can only video me if I start crying about grass, not if I say something embarrassing."

"I'll definitely video you if you say something embarrassing," Phil laughed. He ended up making Dan's awful selfie his lock screen because that was their thing. They took ugly pictures on each other's phones and set them as lock screens. It was especially funny when someone asked the time and ended up seeing Phil's left nostril behind 10:36.

Dan was nervous, more so than he previously anticipated. He was chewing on the collar of his shirt, getting saliva all over it, a habit that he'd broken at a young age but picked up when his nerves were shattered.

He had to get his wisdom teeth removed, the two bottom ones on either side of his jaw because the teeth on top weren't causing a problem - the dentist said they probably wouldn't ever even grow in. His bottom wisdom teeth were a different story. Both of them were flipped on their sides and trying to come up. Wisdom teeth weren't very smart if you asked Dan, seeing as how they were growing in the wrong direction.

"Daniel James, stop chewing on your shirt. You're going to tear a hole in and I'll have to pay for a new one," his mother scolded, looking back at him through the rearview mirror. It wasn't even like this shirt was new or in good condition anyway. It was from summer camp three years ago when he and Phil went. Plus, it was the ugliest shade of yellow to ever exist, but it was soft with age and comforting to him.

"I'm just nervous, mum," he mumbled, pulling the shirt from his mouth. He cringed when the sticky-wet fabric rested against his neck, and Phil chuckled at him.

"It'll be fine. The dentists know what they're doing, sweetie," his mum said, and there was really no telling how many times she had told Dan that. He was so worried that something would go wrong and he'd die or have to get his mouth cut off. He wasn't sure how that would work, but he was detirmined it would happen to him.

His mum had to pick up Phil from school this morning just to get Dan to go to the dentist. If wasn't his fault that he was scared of surgery, and it definitely wasn't his fault that his best friend had a way with comforting him.

"It really will be fine," Phil said, placing his hand on the boy's knee. "And I'll be sitting right in the waiting room when you get out. Okay, little lily pad?"

"Okay," Dan whispered, nodding his head and then resting it on Phil's shoulder. He always calmed down when Phil used that nickname because it would remind him of the first day of Year 5 when he came in with his special notebook. He had finally been allowed to pick out his own school supplies, so of course, Dan had chosen the pretty notebook with a pond sporadically covered in green lily pads with pink blossoms on top.

Nine-year-old Phil had complimented him on it, and had said, "I'm going to call you lily pad," and he had. The whole first week of Year 5, Dan had been known as Lily Pad in the eyes of Phil Lester. Now, the name was only pulled out when Dan was stressed or frustrated or distraught, and it never failed to sooth him.

He saw his mother smile in the mirror, but he ignored her, focusing instead on his best friend's soft scent and comforting touch.

Ten minutes later, and the car had been pulled into a parking space, Dan had been signed in at the receptionist's desk, and now the three of them sat in the waiting room, calming down the brunet as he worked himself up.

They kept saying it was okay, but he was literally getting teeth cut out of his mouth. Did they not understand that? He had heard so many stories of the pain, agony, and the aftermath of being put to sleep. The medicine made you completely crazy, and while it made for a funny video on YouTube, Dan really didn't want to be drugged out of his mind.

"Daniel Howell?" A nurse called, peeking her head into the waiting area. Dan stood up, and looked at his mum or Phil to come, but he knew it wasn't allowed for people to be back there.

"You've got this!" Phil called, just as the nurse led him down a hallway into his certain death.

Phil sat impatiently beside Dan's mother, alternating between bouncing his legs and tapping on the chair. He was nervous for his best friend. He was worried that something could go wrong or even just the fact that Dan would be in a lot of pain. Obviously he kept this to himself when said boy was around because he was already on the edge of a breakdown with his own nerves.

"He really will be okay, you know?" Mrs. Howell reminded, laughing at his jittery state. Phil nodded and sighed, grabbing his phone and connecting to the WiFi. He had to get the password from the receptionist, who scrawled it neatly on a Post-It-Note.

"Dan and Phil," she mused beside him, patting his thigh. "Both a bunch of worrisome boys." Phil laughed and nodded, knowing there was no use in denying it. He had been worrying about his best friend since they were in Year 5 when the boy had moved to Phil's school. They were both the ripe age of sixteen now and Phil reckoned that he still hasn't stopped worrying.

To keep his mind busy for next hour or so, he logged on to IFunny, and scrolled through thousands of pictures in the collective, saving only the dankest of memes for when Dan was in pain later. He even went to the trouble of making a few memes himself, and he would admit that a few of them were the funniest thing since Doge - which was Dan's all time favorite.

"What are you doing on your phone there?" The woman asked, pointing to a picture that he was currently cropping. He laughed a bit to himself and looked up.

"I'm making a meme for Dan," he said very seriously. "To make him feel better later, I hope."

"Is that what he's always laughing about in his room?" She asked, chuckling at him. Phil nodded and grinned.

"We're always sending them to one another. Memes make up about seventy-five per cent of our texts,"

Phil liked Dan's mum. She pretty much keeps up with trends and things on the internet, probably thanks to Dan. Other than that, she's also really funny and sweet and she always cooks Phil's favorite foods. More often than not, she sends food in Tupperware bowls with Dan so Phil doesn't have to eat the nasty school lunch.

Phil's mum works a lot, or she would fix his lunch, but that doesn't really bother him. He loves Mrs. Howell's cooking. And to be honest, he just loves Mrs. Howell. Well, he loves all the Howells, if he's telling the truth. Especially Dan.

"Phil!" Dan cheered, sounding like he had a major lisp. Phil blamed that on the fact that his mouth was full of gauze, his cheeks were swollen, and probably numb with medicine. His mouth wasn't the only thing affected, though. His entire body was limp as they pushed him through the waiting room in a wheelchair. His eyes were wide, though, like everything around him was new and magical.

"Hey, buddy," Phil chuckled, reaching out for his hand. Dan flopped his own hand into Phil's palm and gasped.

"Your hand is so soft!" He said, dragging out the oh. "Just like peanut butter. Is your hand peanut butter, Phil? I'm so hungry,"

"My hand isn't peanut- Dan! Stop licking my fingers!" Phil scolded, pulling his hand away from Dan's tongue. His best friend looked at him for a moment, eyes and mouth wide open, before he started to tear up. Phil started to apologize because he knew the boy was hungry; he wasn't allowed to eat before surgery and it was already lunchtime now.

"I want a baby dog," he moaned, flopping his head back into the air, hitting the nurse in the waist.

"Easy there, honey," she laughed, patting his wavy brown hair before turning to the boy's mother. "The medicine should wear off soon, but until then, keep an eye on him. He might need painkillers, but only every 6 hours. Make sure his mouth stays clean and I would recommend only easy, soft foods. He will probably be in pain for a few days. Call if anything goes wrong,"

"Alright, thank you," she said, leaning down to raise Dan up from under his arms. He wiggled and stumbled while trying to stand, and started giggling the whole time. He was pretty much dead weight because he wasn't exactly controlling his limbs, which made getting him to the car a great deal harder for his mum.

"My legs," Dan lisped, wobbling as he walked to the car. "my legs are grape jelly,"

By this point, Phil pulled out his phone because he knew that Dan would want to see this later. He started up the video and watched as he almost fell trying to get into the backseat.

"Here, let me help," he said, handing his phone over to Dan's mum and helping the boy into the car. Once the loopy boy was seated and buckled in, he took his phone back.

"Phil! They put a pig in my arm," Dan said, watching bugeyed as his best friend got into the car beside him.

"Did they?" Phil asked, pointing the camera at Dan as the brunet pointed to his arm, where they had put the medicine in.

"Yes," he nodded, surely.

Dan's mum looked back at them through the mirror, and askerd Phil if they should get something to eat.

"Danny, are you hungry? Do you want some food?" Phil asked, and when his friend nodded, he turned back to the mirror. "Yeah, he's hungry. Maybe stop by McDonald's? He could probably sip a coke. Maybe some yogurt."

"Okay, to McDonald's then!" She cheered, looking back to gauge her son's reaction. He was totally spaced out, staring out the window and occasionally grunting of he saw an animal. Phil stopped the video, and watched Dan for a few minutes until his phone started buzzing.

"Dan, look," Phil said, tapping his thigh. The boy looked over and said, "what?" but it sounded funny with his mouth being so full. "Louise is calling. She wants to Skype."

"I forgot about Lou!" Dan gasped, staring at the screen as he swayed. Phil answered the call and was greeted with a very close up of Louise's face. She laughed and pulled it away, focusing it on the whole group: Zoe, her brother, Joe, and obviously herself.

"Hello, Dan! How are you, dear?" Zoe asked, making a funny face at Joe who had pushed her so he could see the phone.

"They put pigs in my arm!" Dan said, in a very serious and shocked expression. He bent his elbow in a weird manner so they could see the bandage where the IV had been put in.

"Are you sure it was a pig and not a cow?" Joe asked, humoring him. Dan nodded surely.

"Can't you hear them? They don't sound like cows at all," Dan said, getting closer to phone with every word he spoke. The screen was almost touching his nose. Phil pulled it away from him and told him to stop, causing Dan to stare at him.

Phil laughed at him and told him to stop staring, so Dan reached his hand out and put his fingers in the boy's mouth.

Louise laughed on the screen and said, "I can't hear the pigs, Dan,"

"Oink, oink, oink!" Dan mocked, as Phil pulled his fingers away from his own mouth. "That's what they sound like,"

Everyone on screen laughed, and in the background, the two boys could see someone walking up. Said someone was actually Alfie, who snaked his arms around Zoe from behind and kissed the top of her head.

"Oh, hey, Dan," he greeted, waving to the phone. "How is your mouth?"

"What's wrong with my mouth?" Dan asked, confused as he cocked his head to the side, looking like a chipmunk with puffy cheeks.

Alfie laughed and said, "You got your wisdom teeth out, remember?" Dan nodded then, shaking his head far longer than normal. He made an "oh" sound that he dragged out for a few seconds.

"They put pigs in his arm, did you know?" Joe asked him, turning to look at his sister's boyfriend.

"No, they didn't," Alfie laughed, before looking to the brunet through the phone. "Dan, that was just medicine."

"Ohhh, okay," Dan nodded seriously, then turned to Phil. "It was just the medicine, Phil. Not pigs. Oink." And then Dan was giggling and looking around like a baby goggling at a new world.

"He's pretty tripped out on drugs, as you can see," Phil said to the camera. Everyone nodded and Joe requested videos be sent to his phone for blackmail in the future. Obviously, Phil complied.

"Well, we best be going, lunch is almost over," Louise said, and everyone cheered their goodbyes and well wishes to Dan, who couldn't stop smiling and mumbling something about how sweet everyone was.

"Oh, Lou! Before you go," Dan said, right before Phil clicked off. "Your skirt is so pretty. It's purple just like Phil's eyes!"

"Dan, her shirt is blue," Phil said, chuckling a bit at how slurred Dan's words were. The brunet's eyes started to well up and Phil was sure he was going to start crying.

"But it's purple, Phil. Just like your eyes," Dan whined, touching his friend's cheek bone, right beneath his left eye.

"Okay, Dan, yeah, you're right," Phil soothed, and everyone on the screen agreed that Louise's skirt was purple instead of blue. "Please, don't cry, sweetheart,"

"Okay, Philly," Dan said, and nodded, then layed his head on Phil's shoulder.

"We're gonna go," the so called purple-eyed boy said, waving at everyone and saying goodbye. Dan waved, too, while sticking his tongue out and wiggling it around. Phil ended the call and put his phone down, rubbing Dan's leg.

"I have a tongue, Phil. Look!" Dan said, pushing it out of his mouth again. The other boy laughed and poked it.

"You sure do, Dan."

One half empty cup of coke later and the three were finally back to Dan's home. Phil had just decided to stay the weekend to help care and comfort his best friend.

The medicine had started to wear off, so Dan was beginning to act normal again, which was a blessing and curse at once. He definitely didn't like feeling so out of it, but his mouth was really starting to hurt. Luckily his mum had picked up his prescription painkillers and had already dosed him accordingly, but he didn't want to do anything. At all.

At the moment, he was watching a movie with Phil, laying across the couch with his head on his friend's lap. He always liked the fact that they were very touchy with each other. Phil always rested his hands on Dan's legs or played with his hair when watching films and Dan liked to play with the boy's fingers when they talked.

He shivered as pale fingers carded through his dark brown hair, twirling softly at the ends.

"These drugs are good," Dan laughed, now that the pain was subsiding.

"I need some of whatever you had earlier. You thought they put pigs in your arm," Phil teased, bopping Dan's nose.

"Shut up, I couldn't help it," he blushed, pushing his head down to press against his friends lap.

"You thought my eyes were purple, and cried when I tried to tell you different," Phil was laughing at him now, remembering the events. He pulled his phone out and showed the video of Dan trying to get in the car and saying his legs were jelly.

"Oh my god," the brunet said, hands covering his face in embarrassment. "Send that to no one."

"Too late. I've sent it to everyone," he said, shaking his head at the boy below him.

"Here, look through these," he said before Dan had a chance to reply. He pulled up his camera roll and passed his phone to his friend. "I saved a bunch of memes for you. I even made some when I got bored,"

Dan laughed until his mouth hurt again, and laughed more when he dropped the phone on his face. Twice. He decided that Phil was probably the best friend he could ask for. Who else was gonna make him memes and take care of his whiny ass when he got his teeth cut out?

Dan knew the answer to that, and other than his mum, it was no one.

Dan's mum cooked a lovely meal of lasagna and garlic bread, with Caesar salad on the side - which was sadly Dan's favorite food, but it was also Phil's and that's why she made it. Dan's father arrived home a few minutes before dinner, to find his son sprawled out on the couch, groaning because he was starving but his mouth hurt too much to eat and honestly, the mug of warm tea on the coffee table was not filling him up.

Phil felt sorry for him because his best friend hadn't eaten a day, and Phil would've brought him food, but he didn't think that was a good idea when talking alone hurt Dan's mouth. So, he sat at the dining table with the two adults - who were practically his parents, too - and ate a delicious supper.

"This really is good," Phil complimented, already on his second plate.

"Thank you, dear," the woman said, a sincere grin on her face. Phil knew that she loved being complimented on her cooking. "I just wish Dan could eat," she said it with a sigh.

From the living room, a groan of agreement was heard. Phil laughed.

"I think he agrees," Phil stated. Dan moaned again and everyone chuckled.

"We'll save you some leftovers for tomorrow, son," Dan's father called, and it was kind of funny in the way that it shouldn't it be funny. Why were they laughing at Dan's discomfort and why was it even funny? Just the situation itself was frustrating, especially for Dan, who was also laughing miserably as he walked into the kitchen.

"You guys are mean," he pouted, flopping down beside Phil and in front of his dad. "I'm dying over here and you're laughing at my pain as I suffer,"

"Oh, stop being so dramatic," his dad mused. "You're worse than your mother."

"I'm not dramatic in the least," she huffed, and everybody laughed because they knew it wasn't true.

Going to sleep was proving to be difficult for Dan. He couldn't get comfortable because he had to lay on his back. You see, Dan likes to sleep on his side, facing the door, but his mouth was so sore that even laying on his cheeks hurt.

"Stop tossing," Phil mumbled, groaning as he turned to face Dan. They always shared a bed when staying over at each other's houses because there was no way they were making the other sleep on the floor or the sofa, and secretly, they love to be close.

"I'm sorry," Dan huffed sarcastically, flipping over on his back again, moving his legs to rest atop of Phil's under the covers. Whenever his best friend is sharing a bed, he can't go to sleep unless he's somehow touching Phil. "It's not like I can help the fact that I got my teeth cut out of my face today and guess what, it didn't exactly feel pleasurable,"

Phil frowned sympathetically, and rubbed his hand over Dan's in comfort, saying, "You're right, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Dan said, lolling his head over to press it against Phil's shoulder, closing his eyes. "I'll try and sleep,"

It was funny how Dan could never get angry at his best friend. If anyone else, Joe, Louise, or Zoe had fussed at him for tossing, he would've gotten aggravated, but all Phil had to do was touch him or use his gentle voice, and Dan was putty in his hands - any shred of anger, gone with a snap of the fingers.

Dan smiled in spite of this, though, because he secretly liked it.

Sleep was starting to take over now, beckoning him closer after the day's tiring events. His breathing got deeper as his thoughts became hazier with each second passing.

"I love you, Phil, do you know that?" He asked, half of the words mumbled sleepily.

"Obviously. I love you, too," Phil said, and his fingers began caressing at Dan's hand again, pushing him closer to the edge of unconsciousness.

"But, not like you do," He argued, eyes closed and teetering between sleep and awake. "More than a friend is how I love you,"

"I know, Dan. I love you, too," Phil hummed, turning his head to kiss the brunet's hair. "Good night, little lily pad."

[runthejoint-blog]

Investigation and diagnosis



The road to Paris


When I awoke at about 2am on the morning of May 4th, it wasn’t in excitement and anticipation that I was just a few hours later going to embark on the feat of endurance that is cycling from London to Paris within 24 hours as part of Challenge Sophie’s annual event. No, I awoke in agony with crippling pain in my right hand. I couldn’t form a fist without shooting pain and instantly felt a wave of anxiety flood over me. Not only did I wonder what was wrong with me, but I felt an immense sense of panic. How the hell was I going to cycle 200 miles with limited use of one hand? I was not just worried about the pain, more how would I handle the bike, grip the handlebars, and most importantly brake! I jumped out of bed and ran down to the kitchen to consume pain killers and anti-inflammatories and find a Rapid Ice to stick my hand into.



A few hours later Tom and I were on the train bound for the start line at Blackheath. The train was packed; standing room only, with our bikes precariously packed into the overcrowded carriage and my face crumbling in pain every time I was forced to grab the hand rail to hold on. I decided the best strategy was to keep moving my hand to avoid it seizing up further and gradually over the course of the day the pain abated.

Once the ride got underway the concern about the pain began to lift (in part because it did), mainly as we were confronted with unbelievable weather for the first May bank holiday weekend - torrential rain, followed by vicious hail and our fair share of strong winds - it was going to be challenging I appreciated, particularly as this was a last minute decision for me to join the ride, and had done no training, but this turned into a harrowing four hours on the first day. What on paper should have been a straightforward, and by our standards easy ride, was proving far from it. 



Arriving at Newhaven heralded an enormous sense of relief, the chance to consume copious amounts of carbs (a favourite hobby of mine, and probably the one I excel at the most) and most importantly change into clean and dry kit and begin the next challenge of drying out shoes and staying warm, not to mention trying to sleep on the five hour ferry crossing.



The morning of May 5th began in earnest with us joking that the predicted bad weather was nowhere to be seen. Gathering before dawn to start pedalling again, there was an atmosphere of sleep-deprived, good-natured hysteria. Little did we know that within seven miles the first freezing cold rain would begin, quickly followed up with a chaser of yet more ice-cold and truly vicious hail. Thank goodness we were part of a peloton of 120 riders who had made a pact to cycle the first 30 or so miles to breakfast as a group. Yes, it meant the pace was slower than maybe we would have liked given the conditions, but I genuinely don’t know if either of us would have kept going if we’d done this as an independent duo - we’re tough, but this reduced even the hardiest of riders to teeth-chattering wrecks (personally I blame the previous year’s participants, including Tom, for bitching about how they endured the start of the 2018 heat wave). At the breakfast stop (after what seemed like an eternity of riding) Tom and I stuffed as much food and coffee into ourselves as possible and tried to get warm (an impossible task, it turned out). I genuinely wondered if we should continue, I was particularly worried about Tom with his lack of corporeal padding, but on we went and eventually we made it to the Eiffel Tower with time to spare - 37 minutes to be precise. It had been hard, the weather and fatigue had been a challenge, but all pain had evaporated, or at least been replaced with the general ache of long days in the saddle and the effects of having been unbearably cold.

The road to diagnosis


I forgot about this weird hand pain and continued on my merry way, enjoying an immersive new job and putting my ever-growing tiredness down to spending nine hours a day at a desk staring at a computer screen, and my lifestyle transforming overnight from relatively active to largely sedentary. And then it happened again. About two weeks after the first attack, I was once again seized in the middle of the night by the same pain - overtaking my hand and wrist. It remained for the next 48 hours or so before my left hand began to hurt, although along the edges of my palm and wrist rather than the fingers and knuckles of my right hand. It struck me, it must be carpal tunnel. I knew it was something that tends to get progressively worse before you often need to resort to a surgical fix. A request for diagnosis from a couple of doctor friends over a drink in the pub one night, confirmed my Google self-diagnosis.

Sitting 36 hours later in a consultation room with a locum GP he told me it definitely wasn’t carpal tunnel and instead it sounded more like arthritis. He proceeded to unsuccessfully try and print off a request for blood tests and a prescription for anti-inflammatories to keep me going until the results came back. His inability to work the printer and the fact he didn’t agree with my Google-formed opinion (or that of my friends) instantly made me decide that I couldn’t trust this opinion (another doctor friend has since told me he is one of the best doctors around!). I am 29 years old, eight weeks away from my 30th birthday. I cannot have arthritis. So I duly trotted off to St Richard’s for a blood test the following Tuesday, and cracked on with the day to day.



Within 48 hours I received a phone call from the surgery; my usual GP would like to see me to discuss my test results. It didn’t need to be an urgent appointment, I was told, and so I assumed that the results had returned nothing and further investigation was needed. Nearly two weeks later I endured a 40 minute wait to see the Dr and safely ensconced in her office, she broke the news I had least expected to hear, and wanted to hear even less. At the age of 29 and now six weeks before my 30th birthday, the blood results showed I had arthritis. The tears came quickly, yet silently and trickled down my cheeks as it dawned on me what this could mean. My lovely, warm-hearted, good-humoured GP who has counselled me through so much over the past six months and has seen me transformed from an anxiety-ridden shell unable to speak back to a smily, bouncy, positive person told me not to get ahead of myself. Yes, it was highly unlikely I would be able to run the ultra-marathon I had only a couple of weeks before set my sights on. Yes, it was now a case that I would be medicated for life and have to practice damage-limitation to avoid any further degeneration of my joints. But, I could cycle, I could swim, do yoga, pilates and consider diet adaptions to keep the inflammation under control. The two of us quickly established that it was best for her to refer me to the rheumatology department at our local NHS hospital, but also to see a consultant who practised at the local private hospital so that I would know where I stand sooner rather than later.



You see, yes I can cycle. Cycling is in fact seen as one of the best activities for those living with arthritis. But is the cycling I choose to do going to be encouraged. Is powering up a 15% hill as hard as I can ok? Is putting everything into a sprint to beat my big brother to the coffee shop ok? How about a 2 week long endurance ride akin to the LEJOG challenge I completed last summer going to ruin me, or make me thrive? How about a week climbing in the Alps, Dolomites or Pyrenees? Or a 24 hour endurance challenge such as the one I completed when this whole sorry saga began? 

For those who know me even a little, they know that physical challenges are how I survive life. How I feel truly alive. Challenging myself physically, not knowing if I’ll complete it until the last millisecond, that is how I not only get my kicks, but keep my anxiety and greatest fears at bay and build confidence and belief in myself; something that only a few months ago had been eroded to non-existence. We often see such challenges and achievements as something to be celebrated; a sign of mental toughness as well as physical toughness. The other day someone who has endured hundreds if not thousands of miles pedalling next to (or more accurately in front of me) sent me a message saying: “you tend to push yourself very hard physically. I’ve observed many people in this regard, and your intensity is among the very best (worst?) I’ve seen.” Suddenly, someone whose opinion I had valued so much and who had always made me think that this commitment was a good thing, made me re-evaluate myself. Had I pushed too hard? Had I broken myself? Was I to blame for this?

Today, almost six weeks to the day since my symptoms began and five weeks before my 30th birthday, I met by consultant, Sanj. After he quizzed me on my symptoms, he came up with the analogy of me recounting my experience so far as akin to a Beatles song coming on the radio (familiar and instantly recognisable to him): there was no doubt in his mind that I had  inflammatory (or rheumatoid) arthritis. Again those silent tears sprung a leak. I guess I had this hope that he would disagree with the GP, say it was a one-off virus and nothing to worry about. No such luck, the exhaustion I feel is genuine, the pain in my elbow is not all in my head, it’s in fact totally swollen, the excruciating pain I have in my shoulder today is really there, and yes, it is why I feel physically sick - I’m a classic case; not worrying unnecessarily, I will feel like crap right now and it’s right I feel anxious and fearful for the future. He had a clever knack of giving me as much information as he felt was necessary but knew not to overload me or what could wait until we met again. I won’t know for another couple of weeks what the long term treatment will be, or what my most recent test results will suggest in terms of prognosis, but I do know that it will be a case of adaptation, ‘disease limitation’ and living life by evaluating truly how I feel each day. It might mean that sometimes the best laid plans will fall to pieces at the last minute, or I may even complete an unplanned challenge on the spur of the moment because I feel good. And that is going to be my biggest mental barrier to overcome. It’s ok to not put yourself under pressure every weekend to get out and put yourself through gruelling challenge, after gruelling challenge - I just need to remember that during my lowest moments.

How often do we say, “Oh I want to do that one day”? Make that day today, you never know what is round the corner. I thought I had years to enter Paris-Roubaix, the Tour of Flanders, cycle the Highland 500, run a marathon, run that ultra-marathon, cycle from the Channel to the Med - suddenly I am a lot less sure.



Keep this in mind: One day I will not be able to do this, today is not that day, but tomorrow could be. Don’t waste a day.


[gyrlversion]

Diary of a flytip detective

Fly-tipping is a blight on our countryside, a serious risk to wildlife and human health, and costs the taxpayer more than £58 million a year. There is nothing more infuriatingly selfish — and the problem is getting worse, with offences rising by more than 7 per cent a year.

It carries the threat of a fixed-penalty fine of up to £400, or a prison sentence for repeat offenders. But fly-tippers have become increasingly sophisticated and, to those trying to stop them, most get away scot-free.

Sometimes eyesores can be dealt with by altruistic community clean-up crews, such as the 200,000-plus members of the public and school volunteers taking part in the Mail-backed Great British Spring Clean, which runs from March 22 to April 23 (see below left for how to sign up).

Fly-tipping is a blight on our countryside, a serious risk to wildlife and human health, and costs the taxpayer more than £58 million a year

But catching fly-tippers is the job of community enforcement officers, who are working harder than ever in the face of government cutbacks.

Here, Alastair Jenkins, an enforcement officer with Walsall Council, in the West Midlands, shares the diary of his daily battles to bring the perpetrators of this shameful crime to justice.

MONDAY: A GAME OF CAT AND MOUSE

It has been another busy weekend for fly-tippers and I arrive to work to find an inbox full of complaints.

Our four-strong enforcement team handle antisocial behaviour, environmental crime, licensing, statutory nuisance and ‘unauthorised encampments’. Fly-tipping is just part of my job — but it’s taking up more and more time and becoming an obsession.

I took this job 11 years ago after 15 years in the police, as I wanted to make a visible difference to the beautiful countryside around here — but it is immensely frustrating.

Walsall spends £750,000 a year on clearing up fly-tipping, and we have hidden cameras at hotspots such as lay-bys, dead-end roads and patches of wasteland. The cameras are triggered by activity or movement, and most weeks we get about five bits of clear footage. You’d be surprised how many people are oblivious to the bright yellow ‘CCTV in operation’ signs we are obliged by law to put up.

Some of the footage is comical. You see young lads pulling washing machines out of a van straight onto their feet, then hopping around nursing their toes, or builders dumping waste willy-nilly on a layby, then meticulous folding their sacks and stacking buckets to put back in their vans.

Alastair Jenkins (pictured), an enforcement officer with Walsall Council, in the West Midlands, shares the diary of his daily battles to bring the perpetrators of this shameful crime to justice. He is seen sifting through rubbish for evidence

One memorable conviction was of a gang of serial fly-tippers who had been operating right under our noses. CCTV showed them emptying their bags of waste, furniture and mattresses in such a rush that one of them was hit on the head by a bag thrown by his mate. The courts sent him to prison for six months, with a two-year driving ban.

But sadly, successful convictions are few and far between.

In one unsolved case, residents of an affluent suburb heard clattering noises in the night. In the morning they were appalled to see their immaculate verges strewn with bits of broken furniture and old carpets spread across the entire length and breadth of their estate.

At 2am, a pick-up truck had turned in off the main road, dropped its tailgate and lurched through the crescent, scattering its full load of rubbish before speeding off into the night. The driver couldn’t be identified.

Often, number plates are obscured (some fly-tippers remove them, empty their load, then drive out of camera range and replace them) or doctored. It is common to see tape stuck on a letter F to make it look like an E, for instance, or to find that the plates are false.

If we identify a fly-tipper, we have to write inviting them to come in for an interview. When we don’t hear from them, we’ll do a door-knock and try to personally invite them for interview. That rarely works, either.

We have been able to gather enough evidence to issue about 20 fixed penalty fines in the past 18 months. Three still haven’t paid and we will be taking those cases to court. We are continually frustrated by our lack of ‘teeth’ and it is disheartening when the community criticises us for ‘doing nothing’.

To try to get on top of the problem, we are trialling initiatives such as extending the opening hours at local tips and offering free skips in designated locations to try to encourage people to get rid of their waste more responsibly.

We will soon also have the right to immediately seize a vehicle we suspect of being involved in fly-tipping. We just tell them, if you want the vehicle back, you have to talk to us.

We’d love to be able to get these people convicted but in taking a case to court, our hands are often tied. Every piece of evidence has to be absolutely watertight, and ensuring that is the case can cost up to £1,000.

TUESDAY: WALSALL’S MOST WANTED

I get a call about a fresh dump of rubbish at our most notorious spot — the open space in a run-down part of town called Goscote Lodge Crescent. It’s a fly-tipper’s paradise — easy access, loads of space and no one around to see what you’re up to.

Even though there are cameras in the area, virtually every morning there is a fresh fly-tipping incident there. Yesterday it was fridges — 20 of them. Today it’s huge wooden reels that must have once spooled copper cable.

The council clean-up crew are always on the lookout and usually arrive within 24 hours with a grabber on the back of a truck to cart the rubbish away before opportunists can add to the pile.

I drive out quickly to sift for evidence (receipts, bills or prescriptions that might hint where the tippers came from). You have to be quick before wind and rain scatters or ruins paperwork. By law, the person named on anything found is culpable but they are rarely responsible for the actual fly-tipping.

There is a Birmingham address on a receipt, so I run it through the police team when I get back to the office. Fly-tipping is very often bundled up with a whole raft of criminal activity.

Fly-tippers have become increasingly sophisticated and, to those trying to stop them, most get away scot-free. Alistair is pictured searching through rubbish

The giant reels dumped at Goscote Lodge Crescent probably held cabling that has been stolen, so fly-tipping is merely the grubby end of the process.

Sometimes we are told to back down or warned not to attempt a door-knock without police back-up — none of us wants to walk right into a snake pit.

WEDNESDAY: THE WHITE VAN MEN

We head for a car park in Willenhall for one of our monthly community protection events with the local police.

Over the years we have built up a profile of the classic fly-tipper’s vehicle: a white Transit-type van, 12-15 years old, usually in a scruffy state, with no branding or livery. So today we’ve got the police flagging down any vans that fit that brief and directing them towards us. Of the 12 pulled over, 11 are carrying house clearance and scrap and none of the drivers will say where they got it from or where they are taking it.

Obviously we can’t convict anyone merely for carrying scrap, but this is an opportunity to warn the drivers about our CCTV cameras and tell them what they should be doing with rubbish. It means we have their details on file and if the number plates come up later, they can’t claim innocence if caught.

Some local authorities slap stickers that read ‘illegally dumped rubbish under investigation’ on abandoned fridges, or swathe them in crime-scene tape. It can act as a deterrent and be quite a shock to someone who has pushed a fridge to the end of their drive, hoping the ‘scrap collector’ will take it away.

Mostly these abandoned white goods get picked up, stripped of metal parts, then fly-tipped.

Until recently, one of our worst sites in Walsall was a pretty arched bridge over the Wyrley and Essington Canal. Fly-tippers would reverse their vans up to the bridge and tip their load onto the road, where it spilled into the canal.

Last summer there was so much rubbish — the soil and bags from cannabis farms, fridges, old sofas, supermarket trolleys — you couldn’t see the water. Our clean-up teams were removing ten tons of rubbish from the site every week.

Then the Leader of the Council managed to get our highways colleagues to close the road and put massive concrete blocks in front of the bridge to block access. The fly-tippers had to go elsewhere.

THURSDAY: EMAILS COME TO NOTHING

This week’s report from our fly-tipping hotline shows 76 cases in the past three days alone.

My inbox is peppered with emails from residents who send me pictures of vans with their back doors open, number plates clearly visible, and people taking rubbish out and dumping it. That should be gold-standard evidence but it counts for nothing if the sender insists on remaining anonymous.

Yes, I understand they don’t want their tyres slashed or windows broken in recrimination. But without incontrovertible CCTV footage or a witness willing to go to court if necessary, we can’t build a case.

I am buzzed down to the reception area of our building, where a man proudly hands me a photo he has taken of a neighbour dumping building rubbish. It is crystal-clear but you can’t see any faces, and he mutters: ‘You didn’t get this from me’ as he rushes away.

Enforcement officer Alastair Jenkins reviews footage of fly-tipping in the Walsall area

I walk sadly back to my desk and file the photo with the 67 other cases I’m working on that seem to be going nowhere. I take a drive to Birmingham to find the owner of the rubbish tipped a few days ago. It’s a tidy, middle-class house with a well-kept lawn and the owner is horrified to hear why I’m there.

Industrial action in Birmingham meant the household rubbish hadn’t been collected for weeks, so she had employed a man who came to her door brandishing a business card extolling his waste disposal services and fraudulently stamped with a charity logo.

She said she felt betrayed because she put her trust in him, paid £1 a bag, then he dumped it all less than two miles from her house.

Thankfully, she is happy to support our enquiries and we’ve got the business card as evidence.

FRIDAY: IT’S HIGH FIVES ALL ROUND

I head straight to the address on the business card and find, parked outside, the grey van clearly recognisable from the CCTV footage. This is exciting but, as always, there are complications.

We are authorised to invite the registered owner of the vehicle in for interview, but it’s clear when he opens the door that the owner is at least 30 years older than the figure captured on CCTV. We are now forced to try to identify the suspect in other ways — I’m hoping we’ll be allowed to seize the vehicle, as it might speed the process a bit.

Back at the office, the team is waiting for five suspected fly-tippers who have been invited in for interview. Some are of Eastern European descent, so we have employed a translator to join us.

An hour later, and two hours into the translator’s £27-an-hour time, only one has turned up.

He gets an £80 fine, which doesn’t even come close to covering the amount of money that will have been spent on his case alone.

The translator tells us it’s accepted among this tight-knit immigrant community that any rubbish that doesn’t fit in your bin can be left in car parks or by the road for the council to remove.

Sometimes eyesores can be dealt with by altruistic community clean-up crews, such as the 200,000-plus members of the public and school volunteers taking part in the Mail-backed Great British Spring Clean, which runs from March 22 to April 23 (see below left for how to sign up)

There are pockets of rubbish-strewn land like this all over town, which we have spent thousands trying to clear. We could send a clean-up crew there every day and still make no dent in the mess.

As we are packing up for the evening, the desk phone rings and my colleague Kirsty picks it up. I hear her saying ‘yes… yes… ’ then she squeals, punching the air.

Last month our covert cameras had revealed an amazingly clear bit of footage of a man emptying car tyres from his van onto a verge. We got the number plate but needed to identify the man. With cases like these we have started to post the footage on our new ‘Walsall’s Most Wanted’ web pages and social media, and offer a reward for information leading to conviction.

The council recently hiked the reward money offered from £100 to £500 and, incredibly, it has worked. Someone saw that video, recognised the man and called us to give his name. I run downstairs to the police (in the same building) to see if they have a photo of the person with that name. It’s a match.

Maybe, just maybe, this one can get to court.

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