Trashed elbow

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.