on Monday morning, and there he waited for carriage to Centre Toon. Kitted out in the threadbare jogging bottoms and stale T-shirt that he dared not try to change, MacGruber scuttled his way to the bus stop at ten a.m. Though this ranting amused the lad next door the following morning who was buttering his sandwiches before school, it did little to lessen MacGruber’s agony - or aid his quest for inner peace. With nary a sheet to throw over himself, every shiver twinged his back some more and he swore until the moon turned blue. This wasn’t the first time MacGruber had spent the night curled up on his living room floor, but it was the first time he’d done it sober. Aye, ten thirty tomorrow will have tae do.” “Aye doc, it’s me back, shot tae pieces mon. All in all it was a decidedly down in the dumps Scotsman who used his last pennies of phone credit to call Doc Broon’s private number. All he wanted to find right now was his mobile, which, of course, had to be back over the other side of the room. “Find yourself,” the woman in the lycra and the headband had promised. To think, he’d polished off his giro on all this. He snapped the brand new disc in half and flung the shards at his yoga mat. Once he had exhausted his repertoire he shuffled over on all fours to the DVD player, now doing a very passable impression of Alive Again But Arthritic Dog.Ī one inch punch ejected the disc and silenced that damn woman who was now telling MacGruber to “breathe deeply and find his inner peace”.
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A torrent of unprintable profanities followed. It was somewhere between Downward Facing Dog and Dead Dog that Alistair MacGruber discovered his back was knackered.
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