The middle child came for dinner last night, armed with a bookbag full of beer. He was going to stay a while. I hadn't seen Stef since my birthday, almost a month ago. I should have known something was up. Before he even snapped his first cap, he was rolling up his sleeve. His left arm was so black and blue, he looked tattooed, like a younger and stupider version of Jessie James. "I got hit by a bike a few weeks ago," he said, revealing contusions that spilled down from his shoulder to his wrist. "Yeah, right," I said. I knew the bike defence from my drinking days. Anyone who showed up at the Press Club, all bruised and battered, had fallen down drunk, and the best defence was the old bicycle courier tale. I'd used it once myself, I am ashamed to say. Stef's story turned out to be true, but as with most stories of its kind, it involved the extreme use of alcohol. In his case, he had been partying with friends in the market when a girl pulled ...
More than a million served!