The period of cold turkey has passed; I have looked into the abyss and I have emerged stronger on the other side.  I no longer miss the pub.  And repeat.  I no longer miss the pub.  Say it three times.  I no longer miss the pub.  I no longer miss the pub.  I no longer miss the pub.  No matter how many times I repeat them, the words do not quite ring true.

The fact is, I do miss the pub.  I miss the beer; miss the ambiance; miss the lonely, self-loathing.  I am counting down the days until my local can reopen after lockdown, once restrictions are lifted.

So, you can imagine how my ears pricked up when a friend of mine described how he had just returned from a pub crawl.  During lockdown?  But this had been a pub crawl with a difference.

True, my friend had visited half a dozen of his usual haunts contained within a select triangle of central London that has its vertices at Long Acre, St Martin’s Lane and Northumberland Avenue but, instead of enjoying his usual pint in each, he had stood outside their locked front doors paying silent homage to good times past and praying for a future when they would all reopen again.  He took a photograph in each location; lingered long enough at each site to evoke memories of pints of yesteryear.  It was a pub crawl without a drop being drunk.  A lockdown pub crawl.

Could I do something similar?  Would it help me assuage the pangs of longing?  I feel there is a problem.  I am loyal to a single establishment.  I don’t have a round of regular drinking-holes.  True, I could stand endlessly outside my local, like a lost dog returned home, waiting to be admitted.  It might show an element of solidarity, but I think that it would only exaggerate what it is that I am missing.

So, instead, I keep away, raising a virtual pint to better days ahead.

© Beery Sue

Beery Sue loves a good mantra.