The Rock and Roll Lifestyle
While at school, a couple of mates and I decided to form a band. The reality of this meant little more than occasionally letting ourselves into the music block at lunchtimes and making a bit of a din. Clearly, this would not be an option over the summer break, which meant we needed somewhere else to practice for nine weeks or so.

My parents presented a partial solution to this problem when they announced a family holiday in Scotland. I pointed out that I had coursework to write, and so couldn't possibly go. They accepted this. I rang my bandmates and told them the good news. I had the house to myself for a while. They should come over one night for a practice session. Hurrah!

Of course, little happened in the way of musicianship. Wine, however, was taken. It was a fun evening, but we eventually decided to call it a night; I had been a good enough host to prepare beds for my mates.

Around stupid o'clock in the morning, there was a knock on my bedroom door. H was standing there holding what looked like a sack of some sort. "I've had a bit of an accident..." he simpered. Having lost the evening's wine, he'd gathered up the bedclothes to act as a reservoir, and was at a loss as to what to do next. He stood on the landing like a sicky Santa.

Obviously, I also had little idea of what to do next. The obvious solution? Chuck the chuck onto the patio and worry about it in the morning. Which we did. And all was well.

However, I'm glad that my parents' garden has plenty of trees in and around it. Without them, the neighbours' view over their cereals that bright summer morning would have been of my mates holding a blanket out like a flag while I used a hosepipe to get rid of the toxic mixture of takeaway, Shiraz and quite a lot of bile.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 10:45, Reply)