Saturday in the pub.

I am sitting in a pub in Wester Hales. This is not something I often do, either separatly or in combination. I am out and about doing errands; I had to go to the post office to mail a letter (my passport renewal) and pick up a package from my mom in California - a cat scratcher for the boys. After I took care of that, I gave my car it's nose, and it took me here, a pub across the street from the bank I worked at 15 years ago. It was sparlking new then, and while it no longer has that new car smell, it has actually held up nae bad. It is raging outside; the wind is blowing so hard the rain is horizontal. The inside of the pub is serene; there is fitba on the telly, but it's English Premier league, no no one's really paying it much mind. There is a young couple sitting nearby, silently smiling at each other as they eat their chips; they've done this before, but not so many times that it hasn't lost it's magic. On the other side of them are two old women who are complaining that none of the Scottish fitba teams gave any Scottish players. My burger comes. It's called a "Juicy Lucy". Unsurprisingly, it's a bit dry. Maybe it needs foreplay first.
A goal is scored and this elicits a small reaction from the crowd. The excitement is too much for me and I finish my sandburger and start to make for the door.


Saturday in the pub completed.

Sent from my HTC PURE™, a Windows® phone from AT&T that doesn't understand the offside rule.