Writing at the Pub

In recent times I have been slightly nomadic in my circumstances. My employment has not required a fixed abode and I have had no special desire to settle down while I am still so young, so I have taken to living in various AirBNB accommodations over the last year. That is when I am not employing the strategy of staying-with-friends-until-they-aren’t-friends-anymore. An economical strategy, but one that tends to quickly reduce the number of persons that can reasonably be considered friends.


I have enjoyed staying at a variety of locations and in a variety of circumstances. You meet interesting people and from time to time, you talk to them. Sometimes you listen to them. This is called “having a conversation”.

I had one today, although I did more listening than talking. The subject was Japanese responsibility for their actions in WWII and whether or not they should apologise, especially to Korea. My brief contribution to my Korean interlocutor was that Japan had indeed apologised and had done so on many occasions. That was when my talking part ended and their listening part ended. I learned over the next 15 minutes or so that Japan’s apologies had been insincere, that they continued to interfere in Korean politics and that they applied pressure on the Korean government. I learned also that my opinion was not valid unless I was Korean and that I couldn’t possibly understand these matters anyway.

Thus chastened, I departed from the conversation and I was gratified to hear that my conversational partner was able to continue the conversation, solo as it were, for some time after my departure. It did occur to me to ponder the difficulty in determining whether or not an apology was sincere and how one might objectively do that, I also wondered about the difference between ‘interfering’ in the politics of a neighbour and ‘participating’ in matter of joint interest. But nevermind.

As I often do, I made my way to the nearby licenced victualler to find a place where I could enjoy a beverage and a cigarette and type some nonsense that nobody will read.

That last bit was a point I was trying to make from the beginning. Forgive the circuitous route, you’ll understand the reason for that presently.

My AirBNB places rarely allow smoking indoors (of course) and oftentimes do not have a place where I can write and smoke at the same time. For that reason, I attend a pub of one sort or another 2 or 3 times each week. Usually to read or to write and often without having an alcoholic drink. The coke is priced outrageously and the coffee is not often good, but I see this as a sort of rental fee for sitting at the pub with my laptop for extended periods, enjoying the hotelier’s hospitality.

This generally works out well for all. Pubs are rarely busy on week nights or even in the afternoon on weekdays and they are grateful for the custom no matter how minor. I have a comfortable spot to sit and type, a ready supply of expensive coke and bad coffee and nobody objects to my smoking.

My typical routine is to arrive with an objective in mind. Nothing too practical, generally I want to finish a blog article, add something to a work of fiction or perhaps even to research an especially interesting point. I restrict myself to non-alcoholic beverages until the objective is accomplished and then depending on the day of the week, how late it is and how I am feeling at the time, I might have a glass of wine or two.

Yesterday I wanted to finish a rather clever piece that segued from the Pioneer 10 space probe into gender equity. I say “rather clever” in the sure knowledge that this is my opinion alone and you, my dear reader, need not point this out to me. I also had a response to a faithful reader that I have been meaning to complete, but as this was promised last December, I felt that it was an ‘optional’ objective and need not be completed.

My assigned task was completed early in the afternoon and it being Saturday, I felt that my budget would extend to an entire bottle of wine, I wrote most of this piece after consuming much of it, hence the aforementioned circuitous route. (And a short note to my patient religious correspondent; I did actually get closer to finishing my reply)

As usual, the pub began to fill up on Saturday evening and as usual, I was a subject of some curiosity as it did. Drunken revellers find it curious to see a chap of my age, glass of red wine to one side, packet of cigarettes to the other, typing away furiously on his laptop. And here’s a tip for young players, the revellers that find me most curious seem to be young lady revellers.

Last night for example, I was accosted by a small group of young ladies curious to know why I was checking my email at 8pm on a Saturday night at the pub. Before I could answer, another of the young ladies opined that I was not checking my email, “I think he’s writing something.”

“Well why’s he writing something at the pub?”

“I dunno, maybe he’s a writer?”

“Oooooh, are you a writer??!?”

I thought for  brief moment about this and decided that I must be a writer, simply on the basis that I was writing.

“Yes.” I said.

“Like a journalist?” asked a third young lady.

“Yes.” I said, on the basis that journalists write, I was writing and therefore I could reasonably say it was ‘like’ a journalist.

“Oh wow, what are you writing about?”

“Well I just finished writing an article about the Pioneer 10 space probe and gender equity.”

“Like equal pay and that?” asked one of the young ladies, swaying slightly.

“Well I suppose, but it was more about sexual dimorphism and biological differences between the sexes”

“I’m going to the bathroom, are you going to the bathroom?” said one of them and they all left as a team. There are whole books that could be written about why women find it necessary to go to the bathroom in packs, so I will simply mention here that my last answer had apparently given them all the information they needed.

A short time later another troop of young ladies staggered toward my makeshift office and one of them asked if I was writing. I looked at my laptop, looked back at her and said, “Well I’m making an attempt.”

“Is it like stories or something?”

“Yes” I replied.

There was a barrage of questions that followed this, each one followed quickly by an answer from one of the young ladies. My participation was limited to that of a mere spectator.

“Are you writing a story about the pub?” “Well he’s here, isn’t he?” “Have you written books?” “I reckon he must have.” “ Are you gonna write about us?” "Do you think he will?" "What would you write about me?” “Do you always write in the pub?” “Isn’t it too noisy?” and so on.

A pause came over the gaggle of spectators and one of them asked what I was writing about her.

“Well I’m not writing about you.” I answered.

“Yeah,” she said as if speaking to a slightly feeble 4 year old, “but if you were, what would you write about me?”

I had forgotten, you see, that the most interesting thing in the world to a 20 something female is herself. “Well, I don’t know what I would write. I guess I could make up a story if I needed to but ….”

My reply was cut short by my impatient interlocutor. “Yeah, right, but like what job do you reckon I’d have?”

I looked at her and saw that she was inexpertly made-up, slightly heavyset and with a face that appeared to have seen some rather unpleasant things. My first thought was that she was one of those ladies that collects the bins from female toilets, but I felt that this response would not have been taken well. “You’d be a HR Director” was all I could come up with.

My response was the source of much excitement. “Oh wow! Like you're really good at this cos I’m like an occupational therapist and it’s nearly the same thing.”

The excitement puzzled me, but the ladies seemed to think I had some sort of supernatural expertise in guessing occupations. “Jessica, Jessica, ask this guy what job you do?”

The gaggle of ladies departed for more exciting regions (I presume) and I was left with Jessica, who appeared to be rather more sober than her friends. She also appeared to be difficult to amuse.

“So what job do I do?” she asked, managing to sound both patronising and demanding at the same time.

I tried to explain that I had no idea what job she did and was ill-equipped to even guess and that the whole thing had started as an awful misunderstanding. She interrupted in that cross-examiners voice and said “Well you may as well have a guess.”

“Look I really don’t know and really it would be a guess.” She peered at me as though I were a rather unpleasant bug. “OK, you're a teacher. A special needs teacher, something like that.”

“No. Guess again.”

“Look, I really don’t think…” I stammered out a barely cogent protest while laser beams shot from her eyes, pierced my forehead and exited through the back of my skull. “OK, then you’re a nurse, a psych nurse.” I said, unable to come up with anything better under the intense pressure.

“No, I’m a partner in a law firm. I specialise in insolvency law and I’m probably one of the best in the country, but you think I’m a teacher or a nurse.” Her gaze did not waver an inch, while I had broken out in a sheen of sweat and was finding my shoelaces fascinating. She concluded with a hammer blow, “Stereotype much?” and then she turned and walked back into the crowd.

I tried to go back to my writing, but was finding it difficult to concentrate. Whoever that insolvency lawyer was, I think we should send her to the middle east to interrogate terrorists. Nobody could stand up to that questioning.

A few minutes later another voice cam from behind me. “Are you writing something?”

“No,” I said. “I’m watching porn.” and then decided it might be time to go home.


Photo courtesy Endlisnis, available at https://www.flickr.com/photos/endlisnis/190113374