Excuses, Excuses

I promised Part Two of my deconstruction of Heavy Rain for this blog entry tonight, but unfortunately I’ve had to postpone it for now, due to my brain being utterly frazzled by work today. No, seriously – it’s been destroyed. I helped out with a very complicated accounts reconciliation that took all day – two laptops side by side! Paper everywhere! Excitement! – that took all day, and to collective disappointment, it didn’t quite work. It ended up “out” by a few quid that just couldn’t be found, and in accounting terms that’s pretty much as useless as being wrong by thousands.

So that’s my excuse. It’s a real one, but nowhere near as good as one of the whoppers I heard back in the day. Picture the scene: it’s 3.20pm on a Thursday afternoon in the fifth year (that’s Year 11 to any whippersnappers). Maths lesson. The honourable Doctor Crawford presiding. One of our number (ha! Maths! “Number”!) hadn’t been in all day – a Mr Alex Farrell, notorious skiver extraordinaire. The rest of us are halfway through this very boring lesson. All of a sudden, Farrell strolls into the classroom, bold as brass, and takes his seat. Doctor Crawford is incredulous. “Where the hell have you been?!” he shouts, attempting to tower his 5-foot-nothing skinny frame over Farrell in a poor attempt at intimidation. “You’re in detention unless you’ve got a damn good reason for being so late!”

Farrell sits there with a totally straight face, and then calmly unleashes the best excuse I’ve ever, ever heard: “Sorry sir, my bus was hijacked by terrorists.”

The class erupts in laughter. Doctor Crawford’s face enters beetroot mode. Farrell shrugs.

He gets away with it, of course. How on Earth do you respond to something like that?

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