The Pub

As I enter the small dingy room an open fire crackles and sparks, the smell of burning wood fills my nostrils and tastes my tongue.
I approach my pew and settle in.

My eyes wander to examine my compatriots for this evening whilst my mind ponders meaningless questions I don’t care to hear the answers too.

My contemplation ceased to answer a most important query “what will it be?” Posed in a welcoming but stern manner that suggests to me there is an etiquette here to which you must abide.

“Stout” is my answer simple and clear.

The glass fills with black and white and is undisturbed as it settles, a little extra pull and the glass is full, now I may receive this simple delight.

The creamy top graces my lips closely followed by the sweet black nectar. My tongue rejoices as the roasted taste of malt settles in my throat and I declare a discreet sound of approval.

The evening draws on but the stock remain, each with a spiel no one cares to hear, but this talk goes on and we all engage until last orders is called then we fade away.

Goodbye my confederates we shall meet again, most likely next weekend when I seek a friend.