A knock on the door at 10:30 Sunday morning. Boy answers door. When I see who it is I gently push past in an "I'll take over here now son, there's nothing to see" sort of way, because it's the drunken idiot from next door. Has he come to wreak terrible vengeance, because if so I'm fully prepared to tell him, in no uncertain terms, that, actually, my wife is out at the moment and would he like to call back later?
But no. He's come to apologise. He's completely bladdered and gives the kind of abject apology that only the truly drunk can - "I'm ree' ree' fxxxin' sorr' I wascompleetliootofordrr ye've gotalovelyfamily an' that". Up close you can see the mess the booze has made of him: he's as pale as the head of his pint & his face is cratered like one of the minor satellites of Jupiter. I do feel sorry for him - he'll probably not trouble the scorers much longer, and no-one will miss him when he's gone. How on earth he got to that condition I'll probably never know.