MY friend’s beat up Volkswagen Beetle lurched round a tight curve on the unlit country road, and there in the glare of our headlights was a woolly overcoat on legs, one moment looking very sheepish, the next looking very upset as the car hit it full pelt.
We pulled what was left of the car over to the side of the road and ran back to tend to the unfortunate animal, which as we suspected was beyond help.
Then as we began to drag it from the road, we heard the sound of a car approaching. As the headlights appeared around the curve, brakes were hastily applied and the vehicle slowed to a stop.
There was a moment of silence with us frozen in tableau, then with a shrieking of tyres the driver of the car attempted a turn in the narrow road, and after ramming a tree and sending clods of earth into the air, it fishtailed off back the way it had come.
A week earlier, we received invitations to a fancy dress bash but Charlie and I had different ideas about what we should wear. He was intent on going as his favourite Dracula character, whilst I thought it would be a blast to go as Laurel and Hardy. He was built like a minor planet and I was a galloping hairpin, so we would be a perfect match.
Then I had a brilliant thought and I suggested that we go as Stan and Ollie vampires. How cool was that. And wonder of wonders, once the suggestion had filtered through to what passed as Charlie’s brain, he liked it too.
It started out well. A female friend had painstakingly made us up as two blood sucking comedians complete with pasty faces, dark eye sockets, fangs and the obligatory gore, all beneath two ludicrous bowler hats.
Now here we were bent over a dead sheep in the middle of nowhere and some moron in a car roaring off without stopping to help.
What’s wrong with people I thought?