“I’m sorry, I thought I walked in to a pub!”

I’m starting this entry without a title in the, with all probability, misguided hope that one will pop into existence like a pound coin among the sofa cushions just when you need one for the Asda trolley later that day. I’m making sure I don’t hold my breath though.

Most blokes, and I use this word intentionally to refer to the male species in this instance, when approaching a bar in a pub, will be asked what they would like to drink, or are they “alright”. Perfectly acceptable questions with both mercantile purpose and limited long-term social commitment (some may not interpret it that way, granted). When I approach the bar, this is not the case.

Picture the atmosphere… the slow stride with a mild limp, propelling forward a tall black-clad and rather eery individual, rain dripping off a leather hat onto tattered coat, arriving from afar seeking a beverage to drown his tired yet alert head… The effect is rather spoiled when the barmaid invariable asks two entirely different questions:

– How do you get your nails to grow so long?

– What conditioner do you use?

This morning, however, I am certain that the second question would not have been asked, had I decided on a morning pint of Guinness for breakfast at the local well, for this morning the hot water ran out after I had already dipped my head neath the veritable torrent of warmth, but luckiyl just before applying any items that would require me to scuba-dive a falling glacier.

The result is not pleasant, however. Combined with picking up the wrong shirt, forgetting to trim my beard, and failing at the task of covering up the sleepy bags under my eyes with a decent pair of shades, and there was really only one way to go about the whole morning shenanigans…

Have a cuppa.

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