down t' pub

i was down t'pub t'other night in a hail storm, it being february, and i sat in the corner opposite the door eyeing the weary, belligerent and bored customers who shook hail from their anoraks as they sat down, hunching over beer and still disgruntled by the fact they had to go outside if they wanted a fag. 'bloody smoking ban' they muttered through their wretched, curled lips, as they lifted the insipid ale for a guzzle.

then the door was thrown open as if by the most bitter blast of a northern winter and there, stood in the doorway's dented frame, was a woman of tall stature due to the sharp heels of her synthetic white boots. and her hair was a right mess, dripping with the melted hail of the devilish night. and she lifted her right hand and stretched out a pink-varnished index finger and muttered, 'don't split hairs with me, boy' to the bloke sat in the corner, beer in quivering hand, scared shitless.

and with that she swung around in a cloud of perfumed nicotine and slammed the dart-scarred door behind her. myself and the other shoddy folk down the blue robin turned at once our eyes upon the bloke in the corner to ascertain the reason for such discontent. but he upped and offed and we returned to our beers, crest-fallen. however, i did discover two days later they'd come to heads over the positioning of their patio heater and mrs griffiths mentioned some issue they had over facial hair.

this in not an uncommon occurrence round these parts i have to say.