I dashed across the car park of the Scott Arms only as long as it took me to realise I had already missed the bus I was running for. Beer would make up for it, surely.
Inside, I was confronted with the sort of middle-aged suburbanite in skinny jeans who you could probably get a bump off of (despite the ‘zero tolerance to drugs’ signage prominently displayed) but you would have to speak to them first, at least, them afterwards and it just didn’t seem worth the effort.
I watched 8 buses pass in the twenty minutes I languished in this bad sitcom setting. When I finally went to the bus stop, there were no buses for the next 20 minutes but at least I was out of the Scott.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 