After another night of heavy drinking, Archibald fails to notice some important clues around him as he faces up to the daily grind again. They are clues which would have warned him of impending danger. His wife Janet however, is feeling on top of the world with everything in place to take care of some important household business. But her devious master-plan to make sure that Archibald never finds his way back home again fails dramatically because of extenuating events.
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If Archibald had been aware, he may have noticed a little extra weight in his lunch box that morning.
But, stumbling out of bed with a head that had been bludgeoned into submission by alcohol the previous night, Archibald was aware of nothing but the pounding in his head. A pounding most severe.
Archibald’s volunteer work as glass emptier in the local Public House meant that he felt like a headache on legs most mornings. Today when his head had finally joined him as he rolled over in bed, he found that he was all alone apart from the alarm clock which had suddenly started clanging its bells in an inconsiderate, thunderous manner.
Janet was obviously up and about, noted Archibald, trying to slam his hand down on the alarm clock and failing miserably. A glass of water expectorated over the floor and the bedside lamp braved a bungee jump off the bedside cabinet instead as Archibald’s wayward arm hit everything but the offending clock. Archibald groaned loudly, swung his legs over the side of the bed and heaved himself up into the sitting position. Focusing scornfully upon the intrusive peeling bells of the alarm clock, this time he directed his hand carefully and administered a hefty clout to the clock, which promptly fell into an unconscious silence.
Archibald sighed wearily in the silence and decided to set about setting right the lamp, picking up the glass and pulling on his clothes.
Janet was sitting at the table supping from her mug of coffee as she did every morning, head buried deep inside the latest torrid sex affair that the daily newspaper had to offer. Archibald grunted a ‘Morning Luv,’ and headed straight for the cupboard and the bottle of headache tablets. Swallowing down the white wonders with a splash of water, Archibald sat down opposite his wife and looked at the front and back pages of the newspaper that was covering his beloved’s face.
He couldn’t be certain what the paper was saying, for his eyes were still like frosted glass, but as far as he could make out it was only something about some footballer scoring a hat-trick with a trio of finely netted call girls. That and something which read ‘Lincoln’s arms go missing.’ Archibald wondered quite inanely why anyone would steal the late US President’s upper limbs, but then decided his head was in no fit shape to think, or indeed, care.