I spent my day off pubcrawling, specifically a fish and chips and Mid event, predominantly in the company of those who get a seniors discount. War horses telling battle stories, about a time when only common sense governed the pubs and taverns.
They tell me about the “mad postie” who took his chainsaw to the supporting column out front, threatening to cut down the pub. About the owner who would refuse to open after so many days on a bender, having a party for one in the cellar, eventually drawn out by police in search of beer. They talk about women from thirty years ago, and three generations of bar patronage.
We are home before dusk, tipsy on all sides, and I can’t help feeling I need to reread Bill Bryson and compare notes.
Filed under: when I grow up
People give me random stuff at work. A poem. Hugs. A glass of cab sav with a vodka shot. Job offers and invitations for coffee and a ride to the airport.
I have had more than one customer feed me, literally. From their plates, or sometimes platters of appetizers I am serving.
The most common, though, are tips and phone numbers.
(Oddly, I don’t get asked for my number much, which is useful when you consider I don’t know it. With multiple bank cards, addresses and passwords my mind is pretty much tapped out on numbers.)
Anyways, today was a first. A guy in his fifties who is a reasonably successful business man – and a close friend of my boss – slipped me his number and alluded to plane rides and tropical beaches. I blushed, like I do when awkwardly surprised. To be honest, creepy come ons by older men are not the standard for me. I skew young, and I sort of like it that way.
But wait! There’s more! A few weeks ago, I was given a business card and another invitation by… his twenty something son.
Just another day at the office, kids.
Underthecurrent 