As a perennial drinker I notice people who come only into the pub in cold weather. They look around as though the dynamics of buying booze might have changed since they last endorsed such a venue, relax when everything appears to be the same, and then pull justifiably shocked faces when confronted with the price. In groups, they talk about the weather, wondering out loud if we talk about it too much. Occasionally, a dialogue breaks out from the droning as it did with two men who sat as close as possible to the fire, which, despite its glow, gives out no warmth.
Man 1 I’ve still no windows
Man 2 So what have you got?
Man 1 Just boards.
Man 2 How’s that then?
Man 1 Cold.
Man 2 But you live there ok?
Man 1 I stay in the attic
Man 2 How are the builders?
Man 1 Unbelievably thick. It reminded me why I gave up doing all that for a living. You tell ‘em they’re doing something wrong and they just sort of tilt their head to one side and look at you. Like when you’ve told off a dog.
Man 1 That must drive you mad.
Man 2 I don’t let it mostly. I hide up in the attic, then come downstairs and have a go at them.
Man 1 Like a cross between Anne Frank and Basil Fawltey!