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Vacuum Ahh, Friday night. Sweet, glorious, beautiful Friday night. It starts the same as any other: finish work early (four o’clock instead of five), drive home through the winding, pot-holed country roads (all of which are hidden beneath the canopy of the overhanging trees that line the broken tarmac, making driving conditions slightly more lethal than hazardous, but bloody good fun), walk the dog through the shit-strewn fields at the back of the school situated at the end of my street, and then BANG! My time. Now, there are plenty throughout this world who spend their Friday nights in a predictable manner. Let me illustrate: they get dolled up to the nines in short skirts, flared shirts and ridiculous foot attire, apply copious amounts of sweet smelling stuff designed to stimulate the opposite sex’s pheromones and hit the streets, staining the pavements with their footprints, alcohol and stomach linings. They spend enough money to fund a small country on brightly coloured, alcohol-filled bottles that have the power to either hospitalize them or at the very least, destroy enough brain cells to ensure they lose all power over their short-term memory and then collapse into their chosen method of transportation and abuse their carrier! And these are the quiet ones! |
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