I write to you on my phone, from bed, after work and post-work curry with friends. I've got about three minutes until I pass out, so I'd better be quiche. No, autocorrect, no. That's just not on. You know I meant 'quick' there, play ball would you?
Work was... sludgy. Always more people than we could serve, never time to get off the bar to clean lines or print ale badges or sort breaks, crowd would thin enough to give hope, but then another family would walk in with pushchairs and howling kids, and a group of men behind them, and another family in the other door, and suddenly the bar would be swamped again. All cappuccinos and mochas and food with awkward swaps and five cocktails at once. Working only with two staff and up against it the entire day. Was trying to put a new beer on from midday to five, and didn't have five minutes spare once. Ended up staying an extra hour just to catch up with everything I'd had to abandon
And its only the 9th. Going to be a fun fortnight, I can tell.
But then Ashoka with Zoe and Lizzie and Tom, squeezed into a petite booth like the dining carriage on the Orient Express, table full of plates, dips, bottles, sides... legs pressed into legs, faces close... voices rising in the clatter and din, feeling enclosed and warm and safe, then peering round and realising the room had emptied and we were yammering full pelt about sexual conquests and uni initiation dares and Fungus the Bogeyman into a restaurant silent apart from the two couples politely trying to ignore us.
Lowering voices, slowly rising, lowering again, finally stumbling out into the night in laughter and cheer, down the road to a craft bar with cosy seats and framed animal skulls on the walls between twisting fairy lights. Conversation swirling, jokes, barbs, drinks.
OK, nope, brain is switching off. I'm done. I must sleep. Im out.
Music today: Poor in Love, by Destoyer. Heard this on Welcome to Nightvale. It's good. Sleep now. Sleeeeep.
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