Picture the scene.
Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, 0300hrs, there I sit awaiting near 20yr old son and his mates from a local Inn of some standing, my car idling, my mind wandering. The street lights are on and the roads are just as busy as a Saturday afternoon. A local lass and lad are romantically punching lumps out of each other, screaming sweet nothings in each others faces, stopping just long enough to let the police walk by, before commencing their courting ritual once more.
There in the distance the lad and his mates, skillfully swaying just enough to stop their kebabs overbalancing them. My son waves. His body caught unaware of this sudden shift in balance, causes the next few moments to result in a Newtons cradle type motion between him and his two chums. I smile. I know not why, as bodies, kebabs and car become one.
A slap on the back, "Thanks man" says a chum, my jumper now covered in kebab sauce. Then, so sweetly, all 3 wrap kebab remnants up in their paper out of respect for my car. I now have vegetarian car-mats; lettuce, onion and tomato becoming casualties of war as they struggle to realise exactly why they keep wrapping them up, but never quite get to the end of the paper.
The smell of alcohol and kebab is a heady mix indeed. I sense the car interior turning up at the edges as they breathe in unison. I know if I get stopped by the police, the moment the window opens, I'll be blowing into the bag. I try not breathe too much car-air in preparation. Thankfully it's only a half hour to home though, as they regale me with stories of things I really don't need to know, but take a mental note to google whether they are possible.
Finally to home, well a mates home, for it has been wisely decreed that all 3 should finish off the night with "a wee cheeky nightcap", which turns out to be a half case of Budweiser, and as they pile out, an unashmed hug from the son, a " Cheers, Dad", and a drunken smile that would melt your heart.
Why do we do it? Because we wouldn't have it any other way I suppose.
Disclaimer.
This was typed on a work PC (because good old dad was working today), through half shut eyes and any typos are not the responsibility of the typee, because he can't be arsed proof-reading. All persons mentioned are factual and not ficticious, unless the warring couple have killed each other, in which case I never seen a thing your Honour.
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