If you know me you will know I have notoriously bad luck. My friends would tell you if any one of us was to win the lottery, it wouldn’t be me. If there is ice, I will most likely fall over, and if there is poo, I will most likely tread on it.
So last year, after chilling out with my sister, I decided to not bother getting my jeans back on, and instead drive home in my pyjama bottoms. You can see where this is going.
It wasn’t far, there wasn’t much point in changing. I would be home in less than four minutes, no harm would be done, and little effort was required. Or so i thought.
I got about half way, and was at the point where I had to drive through the town centre. Its a long straight road coming up to the one way system, and I have to pass a pub on the left which is where a lot of people I went to school with drink. It was, may i add, kicking out time. As i neared the pub, my car started to fade. The lights dimmed, and the steering became heavy, only for it to completely give up. Right outside the pub. Jesus.
I called my dad. Obviously. He said he would come to sort out the issue, and would be there in ten minutes. He also advised me to get out of the car in case someone knocked me from behind and I got injured. Was he joking? I thought. But i duly got out of the car, as when Dad tells you to do something, he is probably right.
I then spent ten minutes explaining to a multitude of people i knew what had happened, while pretending i wasn’t wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms with little pigs on them.
I will never, ever again, leave my house in my nightwear.