Patrick is drinking late at his local pub.
He's had a few too many, and drunkenly asks the bartender for another whisky.
"Ah, Paddy," responds the barman with a friendly firmness, "I think you've had enough for tonight. It's 2am, about time for you to head home".
Patrick shrugs, too inebriated to argue the point, then turns around on his stool and attempts to step towards the exit. BAM! He falls straight on his face. After shaking it off, he crawls the few feet towards the door and eases himself up its frame, into a standing position. He attempts to gather himself, opens the door and takes a step into the cool night air.
BAM! Face-first onto the concrete. With a small groan, Patrick pulls himself up along the nearby fence and, using it for support, embarks on the short journey to his house at the end of the street. BAM! Back on the floor. This repeats every few yards until he finally reaches a gate with the house number he recognises. Somewhat bloodied from the journey thus far, he sniffs, props himself up yet again, opens the gate and sets his foot onto the front path to his home. BAM! Straight back down.
Patrick crawls towards his front door and climbs to his feet one final time. He wrestles his key out of his pocket, and turns it in the lock. The door swings open. BAM! The dull thud of a stocky body on a hallway carpet. Patrick looks up at the staircase leading to his bedroom door, groans and, shaking his head, crawls onto the living room couch in defeat. He closes his eyes.
At 7am the next day, Patrick's wife enters the living room and opens the curtains, allowing the bright light of the morning to flood in.
"Late night at the pub again?" she asks. Patrick, still half asleep, grunts in confirmation and clumsily nods.
She glances around the room, "Ah, Paddy, did you not bring your wheelchair home?"