A very moral tale

There I was getting into bed and the doorbell of Derrig Mansions rang.

"Who's that?" mumbled Beattie from under the duvet.

"I will investigate," I said, and padded off in my pyjamas.

I opened the door and there was a little laydee - who shall remain unnamed - considerably the worse for wear.

"Come on, you," said Carol. "We need directions to Stokey."

Never one to leave a damsel in distressment I ran from the house, oblivious to my nightwear-apparelled state, and jumped into the vehicle being gunned by the young laydee's accomplice, a chap-type bloke of sorts.

I navigatored them directly there, and no messing, where we had a fine old time, except for said chauffeur chap who was pretty abstemious all things considered.

The evening having waxed, it waned and I was being returned to Derrig Towers when the vehicle was pulled over to assist with the inquiries of the local constabulary.

The said Mr.Plod proceeded to accuse us of being over the white line, and indeed we were! But only to accommodate ONE OF THOSE CYCLERS.

Following an exchange of a highly banterous nature between us and the Officer, we were invited to step out of the vehicle.

Naturally I protested loudly that the outside world was unready for a jim-jammed-up me.

Our chap-bloke driver was accused of being somewhat the worse for drink. He appeared totally incapable of communicating successfully that a single 33cl bottle of beer was not the bucketload being alluded to. I believe he may have said something about the poorly-educated getting important public sector jobs, but let that pass.

Soon a gang of spotty youths on push-bikes had gathered calling for the release of the Jim-Jam 3. They had plenty of nicknames for the Police Officer, many of which cannot be repeated as I have forgotten them.

Finally we were relented of into the night to get me home and back to bed.

And the moral of this story?

Never open the door in your pyjamas.