WE hired a skip the other week. It's an annual ritual, a kind of symbolic laxative that rids us of a year's worth of junk.

Everything had to go. Even old wardrobes and drawers that charities don't seem to want anymore were smashed up and packed as tightly as possible in that landing craft-shaped container. I believe the word is 'cathartic'.

One year, I thought I'd be clever. Hiring the smallest skip on offer, I doubled its size with four strategically-placed doors. It didn't work. On the Monday, I received a call from an exceedingly polite chap from the skip hire firm. Sorry, Mr Phillpott, but one of our drivers has just driven down Hill Avenue and spotted your skip. The rubbish appears to be at tree-top level. It's too dangerous to collect.

I was obliged to dismantle part of the heap.

That's fair enough - I was trying it on and got caught bang to rights.

However, to the person who sneaked some items on to my skip without observing the courtesy of asking first, let me say this - I know who you are.

I rummaged through the papers and found incriminating evidence.

Just call me Poirot...