A Pub by any other Smell

Of all the nostalgia smells, Pub-stink must be the only one whose significance changes drastrically after having come of age.

Once upon a time, the musty mix of odours: ‘fresh smoke billowing over stale’; ‘beery air underpinned by auld-lad sweat and whiskey breath’ and ‘six month old crisps mashed into mouldy carpet’, would have meant one thing to me…
BORRRRRRRRRRING (but maybe a fanta and bag of crisps to last the first three minutes at least).

It’s mid-to-late teens when that scent’s meaning becomes inverted.
By age twenty, passing a public house evokes the complete opposite to the familiar childhood reaction, and lungfulls on the way to an evening class are savoured in fondness until class is dismissed.

The smell itself has changed a great deal since the smoking ban, but I doubt that will make any difference to the kids of today. They still feel the same stop-running-around-and-sit-down-and-be-quiet frustration now which pub-stink provokes (with or without smoke) and will still feel the same elated anticipation in years to come, when the odour is associated with more fun than they ever had indoors, getting that same smokeless, but musty booze whiff.

Cubicle etiquette

To me, it’s not just good etiquette, I can’t understand why anyone would choose the middle cubicle unless necessary.
Do certain people crave the closeness of others while doing their business or (no excuse for the pun) do they just not give a shit?

JUST enough milk. *updated!*

For me, there’s only one way.
One per bowl.
Never any dry.
Just enough milk to fully moisten without mushiness.
Never any mush.

Unless warm… that’s a different story.

 

 

[How do you spell ‘enough‘? – clearly wrong].

 

IMPORTANT UPDATE:

I do take a smattering of sugar – just a smattering mind, no more, no less.

Ever know someone take personal the rain?

I often take computer crashes personally. Especially when they occur in the midst of a blinding creative roll.
Yesterday evening, an idea brewing, literally in the door, I opened the laptop.
A few thousand words in and I remembered to actually save the document.
Made dinner, dicked about on the ‘net while scoffing rapidly (tin of ravioli out of the saucepan – no time to waste with serious writing to be done).

Closed off everything except notepad and got back on form right away, words rolling out without pause, again in their thousands.
I was vaguely debating rewarding myself with trip to the off-license for my next break, but for the moment, creativity was flowing like some fine, fine vintage wine I could never afford (nor would they have in booze2go).
I was drunk on creativity. There was no stopping it. There was also no stopping to hit save again befo

 

 

 

 

 

 

And there it was. Screen frozen mid sentence. It remained so for over two hours, the machine responded to nothing, until the inevitable reset push before bed.
And I cursed it, not for wasting hours of work, but more for taking away the ‘moment’.
The hours of work were nothing, but the moment was gone forever, and how dare fate, or my stupid machine, dictate that that moment wasn’t worth it – particularly when the computer itself was only running the most basic of text editors and nothing else – when I didn’t even feel the need and couldn’t spare the time and energy, to put music on, or even more than one light in the room for crying out loud.
I’d felt the magic and preciousness of the creativity in that moment enough to hurriedly scrape bolognese sauce from a cooking utensil rather than fix a decent meal…. and some random chance occurrence deems all that unworthy. Fuck you.

And you know something else ‘fate’?… and frozen computer screen? I will not be encouraged to go to the off-license in spite of this ill fortune*.

*Hmmm… was my stand for sobriety all part of fate’s fiendish plan?
Bastard.