The bar was busy at the Court of Requests and a few customers down from me handed over a 20 pound note to pay £2.15 tab. “I’m sorry, we don’t have any fivers for change.” He said it was okay.
“I’ve got two here, if you want them.” She looked confused. “You know, make change and you can have them.”
“Oh. O.K.” She dug around in the drawer and handed me 10 one pound coins.
“Or…” it already was dawning on her “…you could give me a tenner for this pile.” Other customers had accumulated behind me in the meantime.
By the time I arrived (just after 10 am), I had already run over 15 miles in the brutally cold morning. Yet, I was steaming with sweat and couldn’t wear my glasses until I changed into my dry mid-shirt and sweatshirt at which point I noticed the table of blokes in the corner giving me the snake eye.
The fuck, dudes? One or another of them kept glaring at me until I finished my beer and left. Eat shit.
It was sleeting by the time I reached the street and I had a little over 5 miles to cover between there and the house. My legs felt renewed after the beverage, though, and I grabbed a meat and swede pasty at a local shop washing it down with the remaining tea in my thermos before trudging along the increasingly heavy downpour along Wolverhampton Road to (eventually) do some more packing for the upcoming house move.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 
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