Low life | 18 August 2012

Cider was her drink. Pint of. She was a reserved, deliberate, thoughtful woman, aged about 40. She went out hardly at all these days, she said, because she was raising a toddler. On the rare occasion when she did go out, nobody seemed to be having fun any longer. It wasn’t like the old days.  What’s happened to everybody in this town, she said? It used to be a party town full of interesting characters having fun. Where did they all go? 

Then she saw me at that party, she said, and she thought, well, at least there’s one person left having fun, keeping the spirit alive, which is why she’d made a note of my details and then called. ‘Another one?’ I said. ‘No, I’m fine with this one, thank you,’ she said, slightly horrified at the rapidity with which I’d sunk mine.

When they rang the bell for last orders, I went to the bar and ordered a carry-out.