Lunchtime at the Village Pub.

I am in a particularly good mood, because a) it is lunchtime and b) I am in the Village Pub. For a moment I cast aside the raven-black shadow of my abandonment.

The Chipper Barman pours me a pint of Wherry, my usual beer of choice.

“Wherry!!!” I sing delightedly, in the manner of US pop star Ray Lamontagne. “Wherry wherry wherry wherry wherry.”

There is stunned silence at my little joke – many people in the Village Pub are unaware that I am able to sing.

“I’ve been… serrrrrrrvved by a wooomannn,” I continue. The Chipper Barman looks a bit pissed off at this, and slopes off to deal with another customer.

“Stop singing please,” instructs Short Tony in a sharper tone than I would have thought necessary. He then starts recounting some minor anecdote of the ‘you really had to be there’ variety. These are never very satisfactory, so I turn to the newspaper instead.

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