Deep within the dark recesses of my brain, something stirred, stretched its legs and shuffled out into the sunshine. My Random Excuse Generator (otherwise known as 'Reg') had been awoken from a deep sleep by my careless comments. 'I am uninjured!' and 'I am going quite well', I had said. I had even managed to get up some new stuff and trip up a Stone Farm bandit with a spot of low cunning. And so Reg's sleep became restless and fitful and he came out of his long winter hibernation during which excuses had been well-established or had not been needed at all.
So there I was, in Bandit Country, down at Stone Farm on barbecue night. Lots and lots of people, and lots and lots of recent rain and lots and lots of smoke.
'Bit damp, this', said Reg. Thus told, I backed off.
'Cough! Cough! Bit smoky, this,' said Reg and I backed off something else.
'Bit cold', said Reg, and so I fell off. When I got back on again, I think Reg got cross.
'For Heaven's sake, pal, that's three excuses in fifteen minutes. If you want a few more, you're hungry, there's a barbecue just behind you, there's beer to be drunk, and if you don't behave I'm going to get vicious'.
I should have listened, really. But I thought I'd have another go, and so Reg muttered,
'Don't say I didn't warn you!' and POW! – bang goes the tendon in my left little finger without any warning of substance (like over-exertion, wild dynos off finger pockets, that sort of thing).
'That'll teach you', sniggered Reg as he slunk back to his lair, safe in the knowledge of a job well done and looking forward to an easy life and a ready excuse for many, many weeks to come.
Oh, woe is me! My finger hurts! Give me beer! Give me food! But beer is food! So give me some of that burnt stuff then! Well there had to be some sort of consolation prize, no matter how warm or burnt. Apart from Reg showing his dismal little face, the barbecue was a great success. Just as well that my two crap dogs were not there, though. The fastest game in the world is not pass-the-parcel in an Irish pub, or ice hockey; it is catching one of my crap dogs before it eats the nuclear-hot chicken drumstick it has stolen. Incidentally, the two crap dogs are now styled 'Hunger and Famine – the Two Hounds of the Apocalypse'.