He wasn’t all that smart. But he knew enough to make sure he’d take care of his responsibilities. He got out from bed and announced to his girlfriend – his, er, front-bum (little pet-name for the mrs, she hadn’t ever complained) – “alright, I’m off to lock up the pub”. And that – so it seemed was that. Such dedication. But then, next morning, you found out that he had been sleepwalking actually. From his dream he had announced – out loud – that he was “off to lock up the pub” and then he had walked down the corridor, through the lounge, out the front door – sometime after closing hours, apparently – to where, on the outside furniture he had dropped a large lump of shit from his bum. Remarkably – as we all examined it that next morning – there was no evidence of a struggle. No catastrophe – beyond the shit just sitting there. No mess – as such. A clean break, so to speak. You asked him if he had showered after – and he told you that, how could he. This was his first knowledge of it. He muttered something about you being a faggot. Because – standard. And then you all left it at that. Until after dinner that night he stood up, slightly sheepish, his moves always so telegraphed, and headed down the end of the hall towards the bathroom. You knew what was coming in return but you said it anyway, off to lock up the pub then eh? And right on cue – as ever, “you off to be a faggot somewhere are you, faggot?” But the wind was out of his sails this time. The candles all blown out. His cake out in the rain. And with that rain, although none of you said it aloud you all figured that shit would be washed off the chair. The pub locked up good and proper now. And this time everybody out. No stragglers.