An ironically bad trade based on fundametals ...

A few times a week, when heading back home from work, I stop by a nearby Irish pub for a pint of Guinness. Just one pint, That's important for this story, as I am a slow drinker and it takes the best part of an hour for me to finish it. During this time I either day-dream, or read a book, oblivious to the crowd and the 60's music.

Today was no different. I was planning in my mind the later part of the evening, with various tests, and coding strategies I would try once back in my flat. Then my eyes caught a £5 note on the floor. I just stared at it. For minutes. Nobody seemed to have noticed. People were walking by, walking over, they just couldn't see it.

I was evaluating the best course of action. Should I just grab it? But then how? If I were to lean down, surely everybody would notice this quiet guy suddenly making a move. Maybe I could drop my lighter and grab them both? But then it started to look like it wasn't fair. Whoever lost it might feel sorry for the loss.

So, proud of my new resolve, I headed towards the bartender and shouted at him (you know, that noise) in the most discreet way I know how to shout: "Hey, there's a £5 note on the floor", pointing my finger towards my frustrated desire.

"When the philosopher points at the Moon, the imbecile looks at the finger".

Well, there was a guy at the bar, who caught everything I said, and he was no blockhead, and he started muttering some undecipherable words, but I was quicker: I grabbed the note in a jump and deposited it on the bar, to the care of the bartender: my 1 Peta Hertz brain had quickly judged that by making the story public, I would render any attempt at disgraceful appropriation that much more difficult...

The guy at the bar, calmly took the note, pocketed it, said "Thanks mate, I appreciate that" and headed off!

So here I was, imagining some poor bloke who had lost it and who, through my desinterested compassion, could recover it, only to see it vanish before my powerless eyes, by some quick witted guy who had just disappeared. For the next few minutes, I staid frozen, not willing to accept that there are guys with "street smarts" and others, like me, who wouldn't be able to take advantage of a free lunch the day it came by...

That's when things turned really sour. The guy came back! And he said: "Well, thank you mate, I really, really appreciate what you did, let me buy you a pint!". No amount of protesting changed his mind, and soon I was with two pints of Guinness in front me, the first one still two-third full, and that other one! This was ruining all my plans! I couldn't decently turn the pint back, it would have been an offence. Yet I just didn't want it!

The really sad part is that, by offering me a pint, he spent about half the value of the £5 note. Which really reinforces my conviction that this note wasn't his to start with.

This should serve as a lesson: next time you see a £5 note on the floor of a crowded Irish pub, just act like everybody else does: with utter contempt an disdain for a mere 5 quid. This won't make you any richer, but at least, it won't spoil the rest of your evening ...

Smoking Friday Night

There was Tony, and Bill and Scott.

An early Friday night in the London suburbs.

Bill asked me to light his hand rolled cigarette. Just outside the pub.

This smoking ban is transforming social life. Now people of all walks of life gather outside, getting to know each other in a most City like way.

Bill cigarette is not of the usual kind. More of what we froggies call a "pétard". That's all right.

Tony has three wifes. Or so he boasts. Scott has the arrogance of a newly born, and the tenacity of a hamster on its wheel. Short-sighted and willing all the same.

I gave my usual line about sports, not caring a bit that I would get my point through. How could I?

If all eleven of them had their own ball, there wouldn't be much to talk about.

It's just that they're on the cheap, and pretend to not be able to afford one on their own, so they have to share.

But frankly, is that called a game?

Never mind.

The pétard is going from hand to hand, and the next round of Guinness arrives. All standing in a fresh August night.

Wooden bench

In the back of my garden, there's a wooden bench. Enclosed by trees. She's seating there, dreamy. I can see her through the kitchen window. How did she end-up there?

She had called two days prior to my birth-day. I thought it was a sign. But when we met three days later, I understood. She spent the evening throwing darts, and they all reached the bull's eye.

Then events gathered for a summer feast. I had dropped my guard, in the last second, and that single gesture gave her the answer she had already guessed.

She knows I am her only anchor. That her dreams need a base to rest on, and direction to channel her creativity, and stability to blossom. But there's always this dark corner, the appeal from the void, the self destructing call from below. How can she resist it?

She's now smoking, looking up to the top of the trees. I can see that she's recalling the big day, when her perspective changed, and she seems to revive every instant since then. As if, bewildered, she just couldn't believe how simple the change has been to initiate.

I was on my guard. As I always am with her. I just can't let anything slip. I'm walking on egg shells. I know that the slightest faux pas could ruin it all.

And yet... She knows everything. And guesses the rest. And she's right. Only that an awkward situation developed and that none of us can see an immediate way out.

I didn't select her as much as I recognised her. But she didn't understand then. Now she does.

Blackfriars

The other day, I was seating in a pub by myself, next to the garden door. An old chap, walking slowly, stuck his nose out, and retreating, complained:

- The Sun is burning, son, let me tell you!

He then walked slowly back to his table. A few minutes later, I was at the bar ordering a last drink before my scheduled appointment, the old chap called from his chair enquiring whether I could bring him a Guinness, which I did. I sat at his table.

- You see, young man, I've been in this city for 72 years, and let me tell you, at my age, there's one thing you miss, and that's love! If only one person were to care about me ...

- Sure, but that person exists!

- I beg your pardon!

- Yes, that person exists, and that is you!

- I don't like myself!

- But if you don't love yourself, how do you expect anyone else would?

- I had never thought of that!

- You know, no one can make you feel miserable without your permission!

He staid silent. I stood up and left the pub.

I probably won't see David ever again, even though he admitted being a regular. I'm just happy that, even for a few minutes, I have been able to change this man perception.

Think: a Froggie turning a Lord upside down!