One evening I had cycled to the local pub for a drink and had had a few glasses of cider.  I walked into the house, said “Hello” to my parents who were sitting watching television and immediately went to bed. 

My mother turned to my father and said “That boy’s drunk!”

My father said “Nonsense” and went back to watching TV.  

As usual, Mum was right.

I woke up the following morning with a dreadful hangover; cider is particularly virulent and nasty to get drunk on.  Thirty odd years later I still couldn’t touch the stuff.

Later that same day, there was a knock on our door.  It was a member of the local constabulary who had come to advise them that I had been stopped, on the way home the previous evening, for being ‘drunk in charge of a bicycle. As usual, I pled complete ignorance, and, as usual, my parents pretended to believe me.