Picture a middle-aged bloke, greying shortish haircut, medium height and build, who prefers tidy jeans and collared t-shirt when relaxing. Married, adult kids, small mortgage, and feeling reasonably okay with the world. He likes a drink or three, but who doesn’t?
His favorite watering hole is just a couple of hundred yards from home; convenient for any night of the week, except Sundays. The wife nags he loves his beer buddies more than her, but they can’t keep him warm on frosty mornings… assuming the frost is outdoors.
He likes his beer. Doesn’t do any harm, he’s earned it, and he doesn’t need to drive so he’s not going to kill anyone. Happy days.
Then came a night when he drank on alone, long after his mates had gone. At closing time, the publican showed him where the door was, but didn’t open it. What a struggle ensued; someone had changed the bloody door on him. He had a real fight to get out. Then the outside handrail kept sliding out of his grip. In the end he climbed onto the rail and whee….just like when he was a kid.
But some begger had narrowed the footpath and he landed on the road. That’s when his legs stopped working properly. Unable to get back onto two legs, he started to crawl. But the normally-straight road was all windy. Eventually he found the white line, and on all fours he followed that. He reckoned at one point it did a loop, but he kept following it because he knew it would get him home.
And it should have, except somehow the end of it had fallen off. No more white line! It wasn’t hiding anywhere either. He crawled a bit more, figuring if he kept straight he’d be okay, but the road moved. Next thing, the footpath edge snuck up and smacked right into his knee. He took several goes before managing to climb up onto the footpath.
Fortunately he then recognized a neighbour’s fence. Their dog started growling (it never had liked him) so there was no chance of using the rails for support. He crawled along. A rose bush pierced his face, a flax slapped across his back, and he was sure that an enormous moth hitched a ride. He could feel its fluff on the back of his neck. His hands just waved at it like they thought this was fun.
Our intrepid gent finally made it to his front door. Only the hall light glowed, proving that the love of his life was asleep already. With superpowers reserved for detection evasion, he managed to get in the door and right into bed without disturbing her.
Job done.
Waking the next morning, he discovered bloodied hands, shredded jeans, a bruise on his cheek, and a very grumpy wife. Blood spots and mess made a trail from the front door all the way onto her freshly washed bedsheets.
And that was the moment he realized his nights out might have gone too far.
Describing what had happened that night to his mates in a restaurant, he told them that from now on his nights out would be meals with friends; he was too old for crawling, either on the road or to his wife.
Laughter and ribbing soon dissolved into a discussion which then turned into a plan; weekly dinners, with some wives-included pot lucks thrown in for good measure.
Pleased with themselves, that bunch of blokes got down to the serious business of ordering dinner, and deciding which beer goes best with Indian…
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