Friday, 27 January 2012
Here we are in our pubs, safe and secure, fastened in from the storms outside, coming and going, talking to each other, talking to dogs, giving them a pat on the head, all of us with a drink to hand. Here we are in this place, the pub, where we return tomorrow night, the night after or next week, our laughter and words raising to the rafters like smoke from a fire — does this laughter and do these words linger on the ether so that future generations might perhaps hear a whisper that might or might not have come from the person who stands against the bar, laughter and glass in hand. I like the idea of pubs as repositories of experience and feeling — after all people have had such a great time in them (and continue to do so) over the centuries and war and riot and chaos and the smoking ban will not stop these scenes from continuing. These are taken both on a Sunday lunchtime and on a Friday evening when people descend on this pub (as they do most days) and use it as a social club, which is no bad thing. Those that want pubs where fights and football and bad form are the norm should look elsewhere.
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