Thursday, November 24, 2005


Done to death

The wages of sin is death, and the wages of knocking back a litre of yoghurt before bed was a nightmare involving a Dawn of the Dead-style zombie plague scenario.

In an attempt to avoid having my face eaten off by the horde of the undead, I climbed out of the back window at number 57 and made a getaway in my Dad's old blue Cortina. There was even the cliche horror movie bit where the engine won't start and the forces of darkness are shuffling agonisingly closer; I should have remembered what the Cortina was like in cold weather.

Fortunately, the car did start and I was able to avoid the would-be gourmands of the undead, although I guess this meant I was leaving my Dad to face them without any kind of escape vehicle.

So much for filial duty.

They may just mistake him for one of their own.

Sorry, it's been so long since I've been rude to your dad i had to. Last christmas I believe, or was it your birthday. There was something to celebrate I know that much.


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