Local man, Martin Shuttlecock, hasn't had a great deal to shout about recently, as he recovers from a traumatic accident involving a lamp post and the London Ambulance Service.
For a time, things got even worse, as wife Anne sustained a soft tissue injury to her knee, sustained during a violent confrontation between the two, over who would answer the door.
But Anne recovered fairly quickly, and in her case, it was pretty much business as usual when she decided to prune the tree which had grown outside the Shuttlecock's front window over the preceding twelve months.
The tree had grown to an impressive height of about sixteen feet, and Anne Shuttlecock hated it - frequently referring to it as a 'triffid.' (From the novel by John Wyndham.)
Which led to a difference of opinion, as Martin Shuttlecock had become quite fond of the giant shrub, as it afforded ample opportunity for him to discreetly observe the daily comings and goings of neighbours and passers by, without being observed himself.
"I should have realised she was up to something devious when she went out to prune the triffid with a pair of bolt cutters," Martin Shuttlecock groaned. "She doesn't do things by halves."
Indeed, she did not.
As Martin Shuttlecock loafed about on his thickly padded couch watching Dickinson's Real Deal on daytime TV, wife Anne set about her 'pruning' of the triffid with her customary zeal.
"When she told me she'd finished, I went outside to have a look," Shuttlecock told us. "I might have known what she'd do - the cow. I should have noticed the room getting brighter, but I was totally absorbed in a bloke selling a polished brass deep sea diving helmet on Dickinson's Real Deal. He got three grand for that. At auction. Anyroad, when I went ouside, she'd cut the whole fucking tree down - right down to the ground. I was fuming."
Any potential confrontation was successfully averted when Anne offered to pay for large cod and chips up the local chippy - proper cod, not that crumbly Vietnamese crap masquerading as cod, as purveyed by unscrupulous profiteering chippy proprietors.
As peace was restored in the Shuttlecock homestead, Anne Shuttlecock calmly informed us:
"I don't know why I married him - he's a bastard idiot."
Martin Shuttlecock - the very same bastard idiot - was too busy tucking in to large cod and chips with lashings of salt and vinegar, and giving our reporter a rather manky thumbs up to comment.
More as we get it.