Mid-week, close season had been prudent.
‘The garlic must be good,’ I thought, loading my holdall in the back of the hatchback. No vampires.
I chose a local tavern for lunch, followed by the leisurely drive home from my writer’s break.
The tavern was tiny. A fisherman sat in his oilskin weatherproofs and fluorescent garb. He had a rather smart looking neckerchief but it was well worn. ‘29’ 15” N, 36’ 53” W’ he kept muttering.
I felt sorry for him.
‘And put a drink in for him,’ I said, when paying.
‘Who for?’
The owner looked very puzzled.
Jamie Clapperton about 1 year ago
Good un . Do spirits drink spirits? ;-)
Neville Hunt about 1 year ago
Eek! Love it!
Michael Cunliffe 3 months ago
I think spirits do drink spirits after hours, but when the publican’s dog was accidentally killed, after getting its tail cut off by a customer slamming the door, the landlord said it would have to come back as a spirit dog - as he couldn’t risk retailing spirits after hours.
Neville Hunt 3 months ago
Oooooh, Michael... May you be forgiven! (Of course... more like that p-lease!)