What I Did On My Summer Holidays - By Reg Pither, Aged Four.

Well, that was fun!
I woke up two hours ago on a settee in Big Town East. To my delight, the settee was actually in someone's house, and not a skip (it has been known!)
The settee, it turns out, belongs jointly to the big chum, former sports writing colleague and part-time international rock god I call Ed Straker (on account of his whacky haircut and fondness for collarless jackets), his gorgeous wife Miss Dinamite and their two fantastic-beyond-belief kids, The Big G and Mollie Maguire.
Having established ownership of my bed-for-the-night, the mists have begun to clear and I am starting to piece together the events of the last 48 hours.
It all started at around 7 on Thursday night when I was texted while still at work by the gaffer of my local pub. It was his birthday, he claimed (third this year!), and so he wanted a few selected mutants to call in at "casa mia" to enjoy a tincture and light refreshments. Having made somewhat of a fool of myself by enquiring if "casa mia" was the Spanish restaurant near the pub, I agreed to call round and finally made it from work to the newly-crowned regional pub of the year (seriously) at 9pm. I was skint but was subsidised by said gaffer and my pals - we all pull together in times of crisis, such as when you haven't got enough money to buy lots of beer - and enjoyed a banquet of Monster Munches, Chilli tortillas, the obligatory birthday cake and various types of sausage roll and Indian food left over from a buffet the night before.
Now, I hadn't had a drink all week and so, not only did the ale go to my head somewhat, I decided to have a few nightcaps when I got home at midnight! On to yesterday and I was feeling somewhat the worse for wear in the office. The day didn't really go too well, truth be told, because I distinctly remember that the chief executive paused near my desk and asked everyone around if there was a fire as he could smell smoke. Everyone pointed to me and said "Oh, that's just Reg. It's the cigarette smoke coming off his clothes." Nice!
I ended up working late (again!) and so decided to call in for a beer in Big Town East on my way home. While in a hideous place where "Oops Upside Your Head!" was being boomed out, my mobile rang and it was the chief executive again. I attempted to answer his query but I don't think he was too impressed with the racket in the background and the persistent yelps of the drunken entourage in the boozer. I have a feeling promotion is not a word I will be hearing anytime soon.
That put the tin hat on things for me and so I decided to abandon my plans for the evening, dump my car and call round at Straker's for a night of fun.
That, as they say, is the last thing I can remember in any detail. My head is clearing as time passes and I have already had a game of tennis in the kitchen with Mollie Maguire - 10-9 to her. I objected to the washing machine being "in" but was overruled. I went outside, briefly, into the real world and found that some zealous wasp-type had slapped a parking ticket on my car. That's £30 well spent. Miss Dinamite is, apparently, confined to bed having been somewhat "ill" in the night (the perils of entertaining Pither) and Mr Straker is trundling around, looking constantly at his watch and wondering when the bloody Hell I'm going to go home!
Happy days. Nothing for Grantham today, except bloody traffic wardens.