Discovering that the people rubbing up against me on the train were only doing so because of crowding is yet another blow to my aging ego. Leaving the sparsely populated New Street Station with that — the forthcoming closure of the University only eight days away — I decided a beverage was in order. The Bacchus Bar beckoned and down into the depths I strode.
Absolutely cavernous and gorgeous — it looks more like an old Abbey than a bar — the 6 patrons inside could have been joined by 200 more and it would still seem as empty as my train carriage tonight. I sipped my ale near a monument to someone important and listened to someone who fancies himself thus tell all-and-sundry (as well as his phone companion) about the trials of being forced to work from home. That he was neither at home nor working is the sort of irony Brits accuse Yanks of not “getting.”
I checked my phone and there was a work email from 5pm. The University shutdown was moved up a week. Battle stations, motherfuckers.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 
