Pub Life: The Refurb

Drawing: a pub bar.

Last orders, shredded beer mats and sticky glasses everywhere, the regulars lurching out of their seats with groans and kidney rubbing.

Right, well then, see you Sun­day, Jim.”

The land­lord looks up from the sink.

No you bloody won’t.”

Eh? You off some­where?”

We’re closed for two weeks. There’s signs up every­where – look! I put it on bloody Face­book too.”

What? Why?”

Bloody refur­bish­ment.”

Oh, gawd help us…”

Jesus Christ. Hope it’s not like last time. Didn’t recog­nise the place. It’s tak­en five years to get com­fy again.”

The pub is indeed well worn-in: cur­tains askew and moth-eat­en; tables look­ing as if they’ve been stoned and stabbed; and seat­ing burst open, show­ing its yel­low foam guts.

Ten bloody years, it was,” says Jim.

Cor, don’t time fly.”

Where are we gonna drink for two weeks?”

You’ll bloody live,” says Jim, but there’s a shad­ow of doubt on his face.

Fur­nish­ings stay­ing, are they? Not going all min­i­mal is it?”

If any of the mir­rors are going spare–”

Not turn­ing into a wine bar, is it?”

Hope not but they don’t bloody tell me any­thing.”

Two weeks! Christ.”

Well, good luck, Jim. See you on the oth­er side.”

Jim waves, casu­al and dis­mis­sive, but Jim looks wor­ried.

We’re bloody wor­ried.

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