Beyond the pint of no return

     Here's a kind of a blog for a change. After two days of a virus type thing, I ventured into the centre of our pokey city. After collecting my prescription, I went for a pint. With this being Friday, I thought I'd try a quieter sort of pub. I didn't miss. There were three or four people at the bar who looked like permanent fixtures, and acres of tables with no-one sitting at them. I went there because I understood that the old landlord had retired. Not yet, apparently. If you can remember the barman in 'Men Behaving Badly,' you are most of the way there. He has a hangdog expression, and a monosyllabic grunt that says: 'I suppose you are wanting a drink then?'
     I found that my pint of 'Happy Chappie,' wasn't exactly living up to its promise. It had that taste which suggested that it had been sitting in the pipes for too long. I left some of it as a tip.
     I repaired across the road to the Phoenix Ale House which was a bit better populated., though not exactly jumping. (See  pic) The beer was fine, but I still felt as though I was crashing someone's wake. As I circumnavigated the oval bar looking for a table, a man said, 'Aye.'
     Once seated I got out my laptop and worked on a memoir of a trip to Andalusia in Spain, many years ago. I was trying to follow in the footsteps of the wonderful Laurie Lee, but I can't splash the pages with poetry, the way he does. I'm doing it from old diaries, mainly because I need something to do. Travel/memoir writing is a discipline though, you can't make things up.
     Extra: A man up a crane.