As the twentieth century ticked over into the twenty-first I swore that I'd get my license before the apocalypse. My driving instructer was one very large Mexican called Marco who would turn up half-an-hour late if he turned up at all, explaining that he'd had the sort of family problems that required the paid employment of lawyers. Still he would sit there with his Mcdonalds meal deal and discuss his latest fad diet as I nervously merged into freeway traffic cutting off a beemer or a merc, and we'd bond in some odd way when he'd pick me up at uni on hot thursday evenings undressing the ladies through his dark ray bans while I did my best to stay gender neutral; listening to bad fox pop laughing as he switched the car's inside lamp on and off to the beat: our party's strobe light.
And at end of each lesson he'd tell me "don't party too hard mister grey-HAM-ser" and in all honesty in the past few days I've been thinking about these wise words as I recovered from what could be only described as malicious self abuse.
I drink too much. Yes I do.
3 comments:
You and me both old son - but Saturday night's party was excellent fun, no?
Ah, Marco. My knight in shining ray-bans. Those were the days, no?
richard, it was a good party, at least the bits I remember. I saw josh today at parliament train st and he seemed to think my behaviour very amusing, but I suppose sober people always do, yes?
roland, yes, yes they were, yes?
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