Leaving Las Vegas

After the night (and most of the next morning) on the madness in Las Vegas,

Marie woke me up to tell me we were supposed to check out at 11, and it was quarter to 11

but she rang the front desk, and they said we could put it off till 12, which was handy.

We were all still a bit drunk. So we checked out, and walked around a bit to sober up, so we were fit to drive.

We decided at about 3pm we we'd be messing about for long enough, and hauled our semi-drunk selves into the car, and made for good old Los Angeles.

On the way back, Mike was driving, and to be fair he wasn't being a liberal driver.

We passed a truck, and Mike said 'oh shit, that was a police car', and jumped onto the break

I looked into the rear-view mirror to find the Police truck turning around, then driving after our car for a bit, then the lights went on.

Shit

er...

Shit

I was shaking like Muhammed Ali sitting on a washing machine with an unbalanced load.

We stopped and the cop got out and did that 'TV style swagger' over to the drivers' door, and said the old 'license and registration'

The registration was in the glove box, but Mike's license was in his backpack in the boot.

so my says "er...my license is in the boot"

The cop, had no idea that cars actually have boots, he thought they had trunks. So he started shouting about boots and whatnot.

So Mike had to get it out of the 'trunk' and the cop did some quizzing.

He told us, that as we were in the country for a short amount of time, it would have taken too long to process a ticket, and as a result, he could throw Mike in jail. Fortunately for us he was a nice cop, and not a dick, but it would have probably taken too much paperwork.

So he let us go and told us to stop being all silly.

It's a good job there were no breathalising, or things could have taken a turn for the worse...much worse

So, we're trundling along the Nevada Desert Road, and Mike casually mentions that we've been driving on the 'no fuel' light for the last few miles.

We pulled over I ran in and asked where the nearest 'gas' station was, and he told us it was 12miles back the way we came. Trundling back the twelve miles with each mile meaning a mile I didn't have to walk through the Nevada desert in the scorching sun.

We (only just) made it back to the 'gas' station, and filled up

and bowled back into Los Angeles for the second time.

It wasn't any better than the first time.