Donald, where's yer troosers

Donald MacDonald

I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I pulled the key from the minibus' ignition.

It was nine thirty in the morning and I had to drop my parents at my uncle's house in Chester at ten fifteen, so that they could travel with the rest of his family to his funeral. As the service area was about five minutes from the house, this left time for me to change from my jeans and sweatshirt into the dark suit I'd hung in the back of the minibus before going to bed early the night before, in preparation for leaving Ayr at four in the morning. ... (continues)