Cop That, Dad


Blood tests aren’t a lot of fun so when dad needed one done we all knew it was destined to end poorly, but none of us would have guessed the police would be involved.

For some reason my father thought it was such a lovely morning he would leave the car at home and walk to the pathology centre. Why a man who struggles shuffling the distance between the lounge and his bar fridge should decide to walk two hilly kilometers is beyond me, but there you go. Dad has been doing things I don’t understand for years: he’s wears white y-fronts around the house for a start.

After the tests, dad decided he’d pulled a hammy or punctured a shoe or hit the wall or something and he couldn’t walk home. The nice receptionist rang for a cab.
A couple of minutes later a car pulled up in front of the surgery and dad jumped in the back seat and buckled up. Which was when the police officer in the front seat spun around and said, “You’re obviously feeling guilty about something. What am I taking you in for?”
Fortunately the officer was still smiling when the cab pulled up behind the police car five minutes later.

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