Horror of horrors, I turned up at the door of my local for my usual lunchtime pint, only to find that it was shut.  Thirst greater than loyalty, I didn’t linger long to discover the reason for the closure, or even to see if opening was imminent, instead, I wandered a few hundred yards further to a nearby pub, one that I hadn’t been in for several years.

It might not be my local, but it is a perfectly decent pub: pleasant décor; decent beers; not a soul in sight; just my kind of place.

It was a sunny day, and I was feeling unaccustomedly at ease with the world, so I ordered a pint of cider and took a seat at a table––I had the choice of any––in a corner remote from the bar, but where I had the entire establishment under my keen observation.

There was a slight sound, that of the back door opening.  The barman looked up, expectantly, ready to greet the customer.  However, instead of heading towards the bar, the new arrival veered off, making for the Gents toilet instead.  He re-emerged a couple of minutes later, slipping out the back door again as surreptitiously as he had entered.  A couple of minutes later, this exact same procedure was followed by a different visitor.

Next a middle-aged woman entered the bar by the front entrance.  Now, she did go up to the bar.  From my corner, I could hear her conversation with the barman:

“Do you have the Metro?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Have you got a newspaper?”
“A newspaper?  No.”

She left again, with a slightly aggrieved, “Oh, all right.”

Only seconds later, there was a third back door client, although this one did at least have the good grace to call across to the barman to ask if it was okay for him to use the toilet.  Two minutes later, his business concluded, he left the pub.

Then through the front door came the postman.  He obviously knew the barman, and they exchanged a friendly greeting as the postman dropped off a small bundle of ominous-looking official envelopes.  I can spot a bill at fifty paces.  Before he left again, the postman asked:

“Mind if I use your toilet?”

While the postman was making use of the facilities, once again there was the sound of the back door opening.  However, this man did not make an instant path towards the Gents toilet.  Instead, he approached the bar, wallet in hand.

“Do you serve coffee?” he asked the barman.
“There’s a café next door,” was the reply.
“Oh, thanks.”  And he left, too.

I finished my pint.  It had been an interesting half an hour.  Three visitors to the toilet, a fourth including the postman, a woman wanting a newspaper, and a man wanting a coffee.  Not one person had spent so much as a penny––excepting those in the toilet––in the pub.

It is little wonder that pubs are struggling at the moment.

I wondered whether to have another pint myself.  Then decided against it, and left.

© Beery Sue

In pubs, Beery Sue puts her money where her mouth is.