“I’ll be about an hour,” I promise.
Four hours later, I am sat hammering out ‘Piano Man’ by Billy Joel, whilst Short Tony yells out the words very slightly out of time with the rhythm. The Toddler looks on bemused. My inbox bings with a confirmation from Ebay – a bid of twelve pounds for a ‘Caution – Power Wires’ sign that you affix to the bottom of telegraph poles.
The LTLP is unimpressed.
“You’re not leaving. You’re not leaving,” Short Tony and Eddie had insisted to me as I had attempted to put my coat on at the bar. Fortunately I have always been fairly unsusceptible to peer pressure. Unfortunately, however, I am pathetically weak when it comes to beer pressure, and had stayed for one more pint, a couple of large whisky macs and a test drive of the new barrel of Oyster Stout.
I think Sunday lunchtimes might be the new Friday nights. Or, if I am honest, the Sunday lunchtime Omnibus repeat of Friday nights. There is a nice atmosphere in the Village Pub, and a civilised feeling, and free sausages. I have always resisted lunchtime drinking, in that it tends to eat up the entire day; however when the highlight of the rest of your day entails giving a small child a bath and then watching ‘Lewis’ on ITV there seems to be an argument for screaming and hammering on the pub doors at five minutes to noon.
I do not win my Ebay auction. This is a relief the next morning. Somewhere, somebody out there with a worse hangover than me is clutching their head, looking out upon a telegraph pole and moaning ‘why…?’ Mrs Short Tony arrives at the front door to see if I still have her husband’s shoe.