Imagine how miffed I am at the pique of Joe. Mike, Joe and myself are sharing a bungalow at the end of a dark, dangerous beach, scattered no doubt with muggers. I think that I’m doing well, getting home after a Sunday night out at 9:30am – in time for a quick bacon sandwich before my day of fishing. Mike is passed out in one bed, various things in strange places, such as his money and trousers outside. But Joe is nowhere to be seen. The gall of the young whippersnapper. Mike told me on Monday evening that he strolled in at about 1pm with a bucket of Samsong and a girl under his arm. Ghet managed to get into more trouble than I did, though he didn’t have to pick the lock of a hotel bathroom with two coat hangers. And Mike did fall asleep in the sea on his way home, and doesn’t know how his trousers got ripped. But those are other stories….

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