Monday, September 13, 2004

Bar Bores

On my daily sojourn to the pub at lunchtime today, for an hour of privacy, literacy and sugary, caffeinated soft drinks, something happened that I was hoping could be avoided. But it was inevitable. I go there far too often, and I was just tempting fate.

The bartender started making small talk with me.

Now my little bubble of anonymity has been popped, and that obligation to smile an anodyne smile, and to gently nod my head in recognition when I push my way through the heavy swing doors will slowly harden into a bad habit. I am in danger of becoming A Regular.

I need to find somewhere else to kill my lunch hour now. I have absolutely no intention of telling a complete stranger how my morning was.

The rest of the hour was spent trying to concentrate on my book whilst attempting to block out the Easy Listening Horrors pumping out of the sound system. Cliff Fucking Richard and Katie Shitting Melua. If there had been even the slightest hint of Jamie Cullum, I would have smashed my glass on the side of the table and slashed at the landlady’s carotid with the shards. Or possibly my own.

I made a mental note: Better to have an N.W.A tape and not need one, than to need an N.W.A. tape and not have one.

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