On a Sunday lunch-time
my Dad would go out for a few pints and return home, 3 sheets to the wind, for his dinner. He was always an amiable drunk when he'd had a few. He did a nice line in winking with the wrong eye so the person he was trying to fool could see, displayed infinite patience in trying to roll a fag which would invariably go out as soon as it was lit and was just generally a bit in love with the whole world.

His pub of choice was a short bus ride away and the route was served by one of those little hopper buses where there is only one door, just next to the driver's cab, to get on and off the vehicle. One Sunday as Dad returned home, his alcoholic bonhomie reminded him that he should thank the nice driver for the journey as he was about to step off the bus. Mid-step down to the pavement, Dad turned to treat the driver to his most winning smile, missed his footing and fell from the platform into the road. The driver just shut the door and drove off, leaving Dad flat on his back wondering what the hell had just happened.

Fair play to him though, we would never have known about it if he hadn't arrived home, weak with laughter, desperate to tell us about it.
(Innogen, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 11:57, Reply)