A quiet car park. A pair of colleagues. And one very sneaky act of sabotage.

Jane is on her way home from work, dressed in standard office wear — a white blouse, neat bl*ck skirt, and plain bl*ck flats. But just as she reaches her Metro, she spots an opportunity too tempting to resist: Becky, it seems, has left her window open on the old VW Polo.

Jane leans in, locates the bonnet release, and pops the hood. With a quiet flick of the wrist, she pulls that critical centre lead — the one between the coil and the distributor. With that removed, there’s no spark. No hope of the engine starting.

Then, rather than driving off, Jane walks calmly back towards the office — waiting just out of sight, knowing full well what’s about to unfold.

Soon enough, Becky appears. She’s wearing bl*ck leggings, a bl*ck shirt, and white Converse-style high-tops. She climbs into her Polo, turns the key... and the engine cranks strongly, but it simply won’t start. Again and again she tries, working the pedal with growing urgency, totally unaware that the car can’t start, no matter what she does. She begins flooding it badly, and her frustration ramps up fast.

Jane listens from nearby, grinning to herself. It’s all going to plan.

Eventually, she walks over and gets into her own car — ready to make her getaway. But karma has other ideas. Jane turns the key in her Metro and gets a slow, pathetic turnover. She’s left her lights on... and now her battery is almost c*mpletely flat.

We watch her try a few more times — gentle turns of the key, slower each time — while in the background, Becky’s Polo can still be heard wildly cranking away, her pedal work growing more frantic.

Now both women are stranded.

Jane looks across from her car, watching Becky struggle and trying to work out how she can quietly undo the sabotage... without revealing what she’s done. After all, Becky’s car is the only one with any hope of getting started now — and Jane might just need that lift home.

Eventually, Becky is c*mpletely deflated — head in hands, face on the steering wheel. Jane sees her moment. She walks over and offers a sweet, casual, “Want me to give it a try?”

She opens the bonnet and — with a subtle glance — reconnects the lead. As she leans over, she calls out loud enough for Becky to hear: “Wow, I can smell fuel from here... you’ve flooded it!” The blame is already being laid, nice and early.

Jane then slips behind the wheel, turns the key, and gets to work. The engine’s soaked. We’re treated to nearly six straight minutes of Jane cranking, coaxing, and working the pedal — all while muttering remarks like “You’ve really flooded it good, haven’t you?” — blaming Becky for every stubborn cough and splutter, as if Jane wasn’t behind the whole thing from the very start.

At last, it fires.

Jane turns to Becky, smug but composed, and asks if Becky wouldn’t mind giving her a lift home.

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