As we wind down our time in the Weoley Castle/California/Harborne conurbation, it was high time to try the Highlander again (it reopened a month or two after I first tried to get in for a pint back at the start of our tenure). The review I got from the gent on the street at that time seemed wholly unfair as I found pleasant folk all around.
“Did you cycle far?” the middle-aged fellow I sat near asked as I dripped with sweat all over the table. Not wanting to correct him that it was a wee jog, I shook my head.
“Just the far side of Selly Oak.”
“The University?” I nodded at this and gulped some beer. “What are you studying, then?” I nearly choked.
“Dude, I’m nearly 60 years old. I WORK there.” We had a bit of a laugh and I told him I worked in a lab.
“What? Do you make bombs?”
“No, but if you have one I can probably tell you what it’s made of.”
“Well, can you make a bomb?” At this point, someone came over and convinced him to go out and have a smoke, so I never found out where that conversation was leading.
The sun has already set and dusk is closing in quickly by the end of the workday, now. After work runs are a motherfucker, as a result. The constant rain, uneven pavements, and slick leaves just add to the fun.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 