The Sky dish was at the wrong angle. The neighbour had knocked it again. No wonder Master Chef was all scrambled, and the British Bake Off less than great.
Jo hated living in this tower block, where the neighbours balcony abutted hers, and they trespassed into her space with the smell of skunk, the sound of techno, the aura of chavness, the skriking of kids.
Jo knew the couple who lived above them. They had recently moved out. Jo had the spare key, still. Jo waited, and planned, and schemed and built. Finally ready, she turned on the Heath Robinson device placed above her neighbours flat.
It took about a month. Slowly the machine worked, a sorcerers apprentice, an automated demon of Jo’s revenge. One night, with bong a lit, techno pumping, and crying kids ignored, revenge is served. A frozen mass collapses through the ceiling, silencing techno and screaming kids, freezing the flame in the bowl of the bong.
Jo gets up, goes to the balcony, and gently brushes the ice off her Sky dish.