Sleepy pubs

Sleepy pubs in the afternoon. The world seems soft, like when you wake up from a good sleep. Unusual – a day to be quietly celebrated. Drafts through front and back doors, across bars and pool tables. Sunlight in the leaves outside, through the stained-glass windows, across the scarred tables. You sit among the regulars, the old-timers, the odd nutter. You seep out of yourself, float into the warm air. Workers in splattered overalls filter in, laughing. Soon the suits will arrive and it’ll be time to leave. But there comes a point, after a few pubs, when you can gather yourself in and sit still, in your skin, where you happen to be. And now you can sit for what seems like hours, in the slanting light, hardly moving, hardly thinking, against a background of muffled chatter, until I start to berate you.

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