The Trench was particularly dispiriting today. It's pub on it's knee's, the old men who drink there on their knees. I began to develop a pain in the neck. If only they could be nicer about it, the old men I mean. For instance, an innocent family of tourists accidently came in with their bum bags and funny hats and European dispositions and even before they'd realized they'd made a BIG mistake walking into such a barn of misery the barmade had tried her best and failed to comprehend them and the old men had shouted at their little seven year old kid that 'if she got on the stage SHE HAD TO SING A SONG!' and if 'she went near the bar SHE HAD TO BUY A ROUND' and sadly the family had meekly tried to play along but I felt my heart sink to new lows. Sadly the old men, long lost in hilarious dialogue that might include such lines as 'I can speak Italian..... PIZZA!' saw the child's horror as deeply funny. So, let the place die, for to sustain it, you'd need a decent collection of old men to keep quiet have a good soak, for certain you don't want them taking charge; they tend to get nasty.
The problem is, there are no other pubs left that are not entirely populated by under twenty five year olds in 'new media' with their computers under the candles and ex-members of 'Big in Japan' playing on Saturday night.
So, it was home via the Old Maid Pharmacy. Now the Old Maid is run by an old gentleman who seems to cook up most of his own remedies. I'm contemplating asking him for something special for the afternoons.
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