Beer Compurgation

  I once took my niece to the pub. She was either 1 or 2 years of age. I often looked after her on Saturdays and on one of our weekly walks, for the first time, I stopped by the local pub, mainly because my friend was there with his daughter of similar age. The two kids got on well together and it was a lovely couple of hours; a perfect showcase of adult friends and their children existing in public houses. But my sister was furious. She didn’t rant or rave but her lips were purser than a 90s children’s show teacher. It was here that I learned of the effect that our childhood had had upon her. She recalls many an afternoon being bored in the corner of pubs that our Dad had dragged us to, arms folded in the corner with nothing to do, and she doesn’t want the same for her children. The idea of her first born being taken to pubs infuriates her; fearful that they would be subjected to the same unhappy experiences that she was.  I don’t recall those times in the same way as my s

    The ritual of the after work pint has to remain a sanctity.     I’m on my third beer. I’m being picked up from the pub in 15 minutes. I have about a quarter of my pint left. I’m relaxed and mulling over some words I’ve just jotted down about the pub as a sanctuary. But there’s a niggling in the back of my mind that it is making editing the words difficult. A part of my brain is tugging me to the right; like an invisible rat under my chef’s hat. You can squeeze in another in fifteen minutes, it whispers. I don’t move. I am content. But the thought distracts me for a while. Once upon a time anything above the 7 minute mark was time for another pint. An unnecessary one. A pint unsavoured and without purpose. It was this way for 15 years and still that part of my brain considers it every single time.   Drinking until the clock hits zero was always my way.      "I Love Your Work." Somebody in the group always had to be the most drunk in the room. Wheth