Home Boy

I am getting old. It’s sad, but it’s true.¹ It’s my current lackey’s last week in this post and we are having drinks after work tonight. I don’t want to go, but I can’t think of a decent excuse that doesn’t sound like I’m just being a miserable sod.

The thing is, years ago, I’d have been down the pub with the best of them, the earlier the better, and I’d be there until the money, time and/or liver gave out. These days I just want to go home of an evening. Alcohol is playing only a very small and dwindling part in my life these days. I still like the occasional pint of Best or Pale, but by and large I’d sooner have a cup of coffee or tea. I have beer in the fridge at home and it’s been there for ages. I’ve never really got into the habit of drinking in the house; when I can be bothered, it’s something to do with friends in the pub, but even that has lost much of its attraction.

To an extent, I suppose, it’s partially down to the fact that most of my friends no longer live that locally, so just nipping out to the local watering hole is a bit pointless. Plus, I don’t really like any of the local places in Whetstone; the one up the road, the name of which I can never remember isn’t bad, and the Tally Ho in North Finchley is OK, but apart from that...

I’ve been in the Bull and Butcher across the road from the Athenaeum Club I think twice, certainly no more than three times. Once was because the flat door lock had broken and another was because Miss Furtle had mislaid her keys and on both occasions one or both of us needed somewhere to hole up for an hour or two. There’s a lot of mono-brow morlocks in there even during the day; it is very uninviting.

I just want to go home and see My Girl^TM.


¹Actually it’s not all that sad. The alternative is far, far worse.

Home Boy

I am getting old. It’s sad, but it’s true.¹ It’s my current lackey’s last week in this post and we are having drinks after work tonight. I don’t want to go, but I can’t think of a decent excuse that doesn’t sound like I’m just being a miserable sod.

The thing is, years ago, I’d have been down the pub with the best of them, the earlier the better, and I’d be there until the money, time and/or liver gave out. These days I just want to go home of an evening. Alcohol is playing only a very small and dwindling part in my life these days. I still like the occasional pint of Best or Pale, but by and large I’d sooner have a cup of coffee or tea. I have beer in the fridge at home and it’s been there for ages. I’ve never really got into the habit of drinking in the house; when I can be bothered, it’s something to do with friends in the pub, but even that has lost much of its attraction.

To an extent, I suppose, it’s partially down to the fact that most of my friends no longer live that locally, so just nipping out to the local watering hole is a bit pointless. Plus, I don’t really like any of the local places in Whetstone; the one up the road, the name of which I can never remember isn’t bad, and the Tally Ho in North Finchley is OK, but apart from that...

I’ve been in the Bull and Butcher across the road from the Athenaeum Club I think twice, certainly no more than three times. Once was because the flat door lock had broken and another was because Miss Furtle had mislaid her keys and on both occasions one or both of us needed somewhere to hole up for an hour or two. There’s a lot of mono-brow morlocks in there even during the day; it is very uninviting.

I just want to go home and see My Girl^TM.


¹Actually it’s not all that sad. The alternative is far, far worse.