In the estate agent a half hour after the completion of the sale, the previous owner had not yet turned in the keys to our new house. Not a problem, I told them, they could give me a ring when it happens as I needed to grab some lunch. By lunch, I meant a beer.
Not five minutes later, I was trying to put in my order at the Sandwell when my phone rang. “Sorry, mate, this is important. Doom Bar and I’ll be ready by the time you get back.” He brought me an almost* undrinkable pint of swill.
The call was, indeed, for our keys. The keys to the castle. I choked down the cleaning solution passing as Cornish ale and headed off to inspect the new digs and decide how to tackle the complete redecoration over the next two weeks.
The Sandwell is a nice building, too. Full of yahoos, but glass houses and all that.
*Almost.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 
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