On Friday night, Pixie and I went to worship the venerable Mr Pitt and Mr Clooney at the temple of Ocean's 12. We saw it at the local multiplex in our not-very-safe western Sydney suburb. With cautious instincts ingrained in us since our teens, we walked briskly to the carpark after the movie.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a large group of boys. This wasn't a rare sight in our good ol' suburb on a Friday night. They're probably going to their cars to drag race each other through the carpark, I thought. But as we approached my car, we sensed their close presence.

"Oof, Ali, az eef yer can smash Harout. He bash the shit out of yer first!"

"Yer being a facking smart cunt?" Ali retorted.

With ten metres to go, we sprinted to my Corolla. I fumbled for the car keys and the contents of my bag spilled all over the ground. When we eventually made it inside, I locked the car door in one swift motion. By then, the juvenile delinquents were already standing in front of the car. One of them was already devoid of a shirt and paraded his adolescent pectoral muscles around.

"Oh, shit. I hope he doesn't fucking moon us," I said to Pixie.

As I backed out of the car space, we suddenly realised that though they were juvenile, they were not exactly delinquents. They were in fact on Mr Westfield's payroll as trolley boys. I had parked next to the trolley return bay and the previously topless boy was merely in the process of putting on his neon yellow reflector shirt.

"We're such dorks." Pixie said as I navigated the car around the wrongfully accused trolley boys.

Well put, Pixie.