Let me tell you a sorry tale of woe...

Me and Phil found a ball on New Years day, and called it Bally. We would take it for a walk around the park, i.e. kick it around and follow it whereever it went. It was like having a low maintenance dog.
We found Bally when we were in a quite insane state, the day after New Year's Eve and 12 hours of partying we got up at three and went to the pub for a few gin and tonics, thus increasing the madness. Bally was outside the pub and one of the Lovely Boyfriend's flatmates kicked absentmindedly, and as it rolled out to the street I kicked it back toward the pub. Lovely Boyfriend's flatmamtes walked off but me and LB stayed to watch this battered, sludgy ball roll back out to the street, down towards the park, career off towards Patcham and finally settle wedged under a car.
In our topped up drunk state this was sheer madness, we couldn't have been more entertained if Bruce Forsyth himself had turned up doing backflips in a tutu. We picked up Bally the next day and he was our surrogate pet, until one day he disappeared.

Bally will forever be immortalised in the form of my password for my CDN sessions at work. Poor Bally.

Poor me. I hope its lunchtime soon.