This actually reminds me of when I was a kid, probably about 6 or 7, and ended up pedalling like mad out of a burning shed. We used to live in a place called Berkhamsted, and our garden was adjacent to an allotment. There was this one plot that was unused and there was a large shed at one end, all well boarded up, that we would often climb on in the late evening. Little did we know that the shed was full of flammable materials. I remember how my friends and I suddenly realised that day that although the lock was sturdy, the screws for the plate were accessible. So my friend, Jack, went home on his bike to get his screwdriver, which actually was my Dad's screwdriver that he had nicked when he visited us and played in our garage. Even when I pointed out the blue and white handle, he still maintained that it was his, the bloody liar. He even nicked my sweets once when we were walking home from school, a whole bag of Parma Violets, and then felt sick after he ate them all to hide the evidence. I think that serves him bloody right, and no doubt he's probably in jail by now.
