I think the statute of limitations has expired, so I presume it’s safe to tell this tale.
(The same gal that features in this 6° story, and this 6° story, is the one I speak of here.)
Blue boxes had just been introduced in London. 1990 or so. My friend Peter informed me that he’d been told they were perfectly sized to hold records. (Milk crates were already being made smaller than 12" because of the problems they were having with people stealing them.) He wanted to nick one. We drove around on a Friday evening trying to find one still at the curb. Finally located one. Into the trunk it went.
That Sunday afternoon, Kathryn, who at this point was still just a friend, was over for a visit. I relayed my involvement in this larcenous escapade.
“That’s weird. Someone stole our blue box.”
“It couldn’t have been us. I think you’re further north than where we were. We were up by the university.”
“Yes, that’s where I live.”
I was pulling out a map at this point. “Are you at the end of a cul de sac?”
“Is it called Steele Street?”
After she left, I called Peter up.
“Uuuhh...listen we need to replace that blue box we stole.”
I relayed the conversation Kathryn and I had just had. Peter is howling on the phone.
“What are the odds?”
“I know, but I really like her, but I feel kind of bad. The victim of our thievery now has a face and a name. I feel guilty.”
Later that night, we drove around, found another blue box, stole it, and dropped it off outside of what I now knew to be her house.
She didn’t seem to hold my involvement in this criminality against me, because a while later she became more than just a friend. :-)