Not Really a Tale From the Pub

Not really because on this occasion I am not sat on my own, staring intensely at the wall and brooding about things that will never have a happy ending.

I am In The Pub.

More accurately The Pub garden. The sun is shining. I can see the river from where I sit.

Unusually, I am surrounded by people. People I know fairly well. And actually quite like.

This is a strange situation for me. It is the middle of the day.

I have been laughing. Not something normally worthy of comment, but it has been some time. Proper laughing mind. The aching-ribs variety. The totally infectious sort. That continues for far longer than it should purely because of the very fact that several people are uncontrollably laughing for no reason anyone can remember.

Pub garden. River. Woodland very close.

Suddenly a Vauxhall Cavalier screams to a halt. We stare. It is not a place where 'The Sweeney' -style driving is expected.

All three occupants are well muscled, heavily tattooed, are wearing vests, and have expressions that suggest it would not be wise to meet their gaze.

Immediately upon the car stopping, two of the occupants leap out and run into the woods.

We look at each other for a bit.

Less than one minute later, both occupants emerge from the woods. Running. Each holding one handle of a wheel-barrow. As they approach, the driver pops the boot.

We are rather surprised by the sight of a wheelbarrow at this stage.

They reach the car, and from the wheelbarrow begin dragging four rather heavy (judging by the grunting) plastic bags - all of which make an alarming clanking noise - from the wheelbarrow into the boot of the car.

The two gentlemen then leap into the car. None of them says 'Go go go' but they really didn't have to.

A squeal of tyres, gravel and gears and they are gone.

There is a short silence.

I light a cigarette.

Someone scratches their ear.

After a while someone else says:

'That was a bit odd'

There is a general murmur of concurrence.