by Paul McIntyre
Bits of that night keep coming back to me. It was the usual pattern: beer, beer, shot; beer, beer, shot. After that it gets hazy. We staggered home through the field - the one with the grey horse in it. I don’t remember: was it your idea or mine to lead it across the motorway? The newspapers wanted answers too.
Paul McIntyre lives in Manchester, and blogs about scriptwriting here. (He's 28, but not yet worried about 30.)