Well, in my experience a 'soft answer' inviteth increasing wrath, and giveth the impression that thou is a softie and deserveth all thou gets.
* Yes, I know this quote is from the Bible - book of proverbs.
Scenes from Pub Life - #143
I raise my glass - not to toast absent friends, but to check if the beer is cloudy. It isn't. So I drink.
A tall girl - made even taller by her stiletto heels - standing at the bar, gives me a friendly smile. I think I know her. She used to live in my road.
I smile back. I ignore the two beer-bellied men at her side.
The barmaid, a plump blonde sucking a lollipop, hands me my change. I never check it. Funny that: I check for the beer being cloudy but never inspect my change. I go and sit down. I don't like standing at the bar. I mean, if you've paid for your drink you deserve a seat.
A leather-jacketed, willowy blonde (another one) glides into the lavatory - which is opposite to where I'm sitting (no, I don't choose this seat deliberately!) and I catch a whiff of perfume as she passes - very nice.
I reflect on what a wonderful place a pub is. Nobody asks you any questions and they will go on serving you until your money runs out. Not that I ever stay in a pub until my money runs out - although I have a friend who does.
Back to the bar. This time it's the brunette with the black goggle-like glasses. 'Those glasses suit you.' I say. 'Yes, everybody says that.' she replies.
Back to my seat.
It's very pleasant in here. And I think, this is a good planet to be on, despite all the bad stuff.
Clip-clop. High heels. Another young lady trots to the bar. The barmaid asks her something and she clip-clops back to check with 'Dave'. What a macho name, 'Dave'. No wonder she is prepared to go to the bar for the drinks while he sits there thumbing his cell-phone.
Clip-clop. She's back again to further check with Dave. She obviously wants to make sure she's got it right. I bet Dave would give her an earful if she got it wrong.
The beer is starting to get to my legs. The legs are always the first to feel the effects. The head comes later. I wonder just what is happening in this chemical factory I call a brain.
Here is a poem, dedicated to Barmaids, everywhere:
On the Pull
This barmaid has a life
When she goes away from here –
What d’you think she’s pulling
When she isn’t pulling beer?
Perhaps she’s pulling wool
Over unsuspecting eyes –
Perhaps she’s pulling rabbits
Out of hats – as a surprise.
Perhaps she’s pulling up her socks,
Resolving to do better –
Perhaps she’s pulling out the rug
From under from under some go-getter.
Perhaps she’s pulling ropes
To make the church bells ring –
Perhaps she’s pulling tails
On cats – the naughty thing.
Perhaps she’s pulling faces
To make her boyfriend smile –
Perhaps she’s pulling up her skirts
To climb some rustic stile.
Perhaps she’s pulling on the oars
Of rowing boat or skiff
–
Perhaps she’s pulling out her gear
To roll herself a spliff.
Perhaps she’s pulling up the weeds
To make her garden pretty –
Perhaps she’s pulling crackers
And reading jokes, so witty.
Perhaps she’s pulling down her blind
Before she goes to bed –
Perhaps she’s pulling out the corks
And watching wine flow red.
Perhaps she’s pulling out all stops,
Some gentleman to please –
Perhaps she’s pulling muscles
And dislocating knees.
For there are oh so many things
A girl like her could pull –
So when she’s finished here tonight,
I bet her life’s not dull.
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