The Pub

The currents of emotion will carry a man many places and alas it may have twisted and traversed to move myself, but only to take me to one place: ‘The Pub’

Somewhere in England sits a humble building of strong construction, no more spectacular from the outside than any other pub you may see in the heart of any village but for the people it may as well aspire to palatial heights and be a church of good spirits. From the irradiating warmth of homely values that stems from the wood burning fire to the traditionally set bar of wooden construction, and in fine British standard a pillar of the building’s status sits proud… the Pool Table.

The food itself cuts levels above the pathetically minimal portioning of finer dining; quality ensured in every rewarding morsel that you allow passage to your taste buds, with no less than riotous applause from the heavy stomach that cements the ideals of a good, fulfilling meal.

Having been asked to educate on the elusively vague title of ‘British Values’ earlier in the day I would now offer anyone the merrying opportunity to walk into ‘The Pub’ and ask for a cup of tea, briefly depart their troubles upon the cheery landlady whilst the landlord prepares culinary delights to banish all lingering odours of ill will that hath stained the day. And always be greeted with a candid smile, an honest yet reassuring word and a good old fashioned manner that restoratively revives your better self.

All the literary panache that I have lavished so far upon this place may sound as an over abundance of praise and somewhat bordering on unbelievable, admittedly I do not doubt anyone over the age of eighteen has discovered a watering hole of similarly significant value in their lifespan to date, but I will explain my connection to this singular apparition of perfection. A number of years ago I attended college and during my daily chore of driving there via the back roads I passed a pub, which only after my business with the collage was thankfully concluded did I enter and order a cold drink, the poor buggers were stuck with me from then on!

I have dragged myself to their welcoming door in all manner of enlightened, disheartened and ungodly states over the course of the years that followed that first tentative entry to what would become a safe house from the woes of this world, aided by the lacking mobile phone coverage that has decisively severed my connection to the existence of outside forces whenever I need to escape the invasive reach of communication upon my beleaguered calm.

Two (and a half) break ups, a number of verbal disagreements with fellow humans, overall depressive avenues that led to the immortal request ‘I’ll take a bullet to the head please’ and every deep depressive moment I needed sanctuary, all the opening accolades of this text have been dutifully and deservingly earned in teabags, chips, cheese sandwiches and desserts.

So I regret to confess the reason for this post, as it signals the finality of a now only days long countdown before the current management move on, which as much as the building will remain standing and the drinks will flow it is for me a time to move on. It could be said (and proven) that unexpected or unwanted circumstances force us to adapt to the ever changing nature of our being, very apt as I now contemplate my next move in the momentous episode that is the loss of my (current) sanctuary.

So goodbye Pub, and for those who are leaving I wish you well

May in your new ventures you never run into a screwed up depressive type as I am, for sake of your recovering sanity at least!

 

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