As we sit, freezing cold, in our dark garden after a lovely barbecue, my other half says those words every man longs to hear: ‘Shall we go to the pub?’
Good girl! So it’s off for some serious people-watching.
The short two-minute walk takes us to the water’s edge and our local. It always seems to be busy in there, from diners to lads on the start of a night out getting a few in before the taxi takes them to the bright lights of Gunwharf.
Or there might be groups of girls nattering away, accompanied by loud, shrill laughter.
The landlord stands by the bar, nursing his beer. As the night wears on, I’m sure he’s getting the worse for wear as he gets slower and slower walking around picking up glasses.
Perk of the job maybe? But then again, every time we go in he’s doing the same!
A group of lads ‘have’ to stand at the bar to drink. It’s a guy thing. Girls sit down, men stand at the bar and laugh loudly at rubbish football jokes. It’s what we do.
Then a pretty blonde girl from the group sat in the top section comes to the bar to buy a round.
All of a sudden the lads are quiet as one leans back, half-drunk pint in hand, and looks down to check the pertness of her bottom. Priceless!
The couple next to us show some interesting signs as they sit facing each other.
She’s holding on to one of his crossed arms as he looks constantly at the bar. I’m no psychologist, but I reckon he’s not into her as much as she’s into him.
In the corner, is that our local councillor I can see? Shall I go over and have a good moan all about the A32? No, I’ll leave him be.
Then a couple come in, looking very sheepish. They sit in another corner, deep in conversation.
You can so tell they’re having an affair, especially as they both jump every time the door opens. Guilty conscience, methinks.
You see, your local is such a great place to be. So much more fun than the boring old telly.
My other half then rounds the night off superbly by buying me a brandy.
Now I know I’m with the right woman!