Bank Holiday Monday, today it was spent digging in the garden being a grown up getting and getting it ready for a lawn. As it type this I am struggling with the feel of the keyboard because the ends of my fingers are slightly numb from doing something harder than pushing a mouse around.
In the olden days I never had to worry about such things, especially when I was in my late teens. Instead of having responsibility for gardens or home improvements, plus none of the worry about work the next day, I was able to enjoy the Bank Holiday.
Most of my long weekends normally had a story that began, three people walk into a bar…
Now I’m grown up (something many people would still dispute) I don’t get to go out as much as I did when I was littler. Not that I am looking for sympathy, as Mrs G will tell you, I don’t mind the staying in. In those halcyon days of Cool Britannia life was different, and so was my treatment of my liver.
No weekend was complete without trip to the local pub with friends for a few shandys and a discussion of the latest world events. This would quickly descend into JD & Coke and singing along to the Spice Girls.
The pub I used to frequent is no longer there, it was demolished many years ago to make way for too-small-flats, but the memories of those nights still live on. Many of those memories are what would stop me from holding any office in this land because it would fill a number of tabloids.
After all, three men walk into a bar…
- …and one is chased up the street after stealing a pint glass which he drops and smashes during his escape.
- …and end up stealing a bin, and then restealing it on the way back home putting outside the original house.
- …and try to steal a stone that has been concreted in place.