well
This is a bit of a personal bloody question this week isn't it? Lots of cans of worms being opened as everyone pours out their most emotionalist moments.

I ran away from my house once with a mate called paul (no not that paul), who was a tear away chav criminal druggie. We took acid and embarked on our mission to survive by being big bad crook gangstars, such as you might find in Bracknell or Egham. Our first port of call was a garage door where the two of us, fifteen at the time had decided to put our thirty combined years to the task of stealing a car. The acid was really kicking in at this point and my mouth was as dry as a week old sausage, like what you find when you're cleaning out the barbeque and there's some stuff at the bottom which fell through the metal grid.

The garage door was open and we walked in. There was no car, but strangely enough, right where the car should have been, smack in the center of the garage was a fridge. A big bloody white fridge; plugged in and humming, right there in the center of the room. Apart from the fridge the place was virtually empty.

Dazzled by the pure white shininess of this glittering yet practical apparition we stepped solemnly forward. As one man we stood before the fridge, I on the left Paul on the right. I put out a hand and pulled on the top compartment.

Awestruck! Yes completely awestruck we beheld the light which poured from the fridge into our acid raddled dinner plate pupils Murmuring strange comments about the divineness of it all we allowed our eyes to adjust to examine the contents.

We burst out laughing as we discovered, what I could only describe as the best-stocked fridge in the entire world. Five shelves laden to the brim with can upon can of Fosters neatly packaged into packs of 24. Still giggling as we crunched across the gravel driveway, our arms aching under the strain of all the beer, we proceeded to Paul's gyppo mate's caravan and drunk every single can of beer.

Completely forgetting the problems with the family I trudged home on my own at 6am the next morning, happily spluttering up vomit along the way. Soaked with spew and crap I knocked on the door of my house and flopped into the door, ignoring my mother who silently regarded my piss stained blood shot appearance.

I'd managed to run away from home for about twenty hours. I was a criminal, but it didn't matter - I'd had a great night.



-edit. Read some of the other stories and a few appear quite similar to mine. Must have been a trend at the time.
(batteryoperatedlettuce Soon to be nine b3ta yrs old, Thu 17 Aug 2006, 20:48, Reply)