Today was tiring. I’m not addicted to mocktails, but in my tiredness, I find myself trudging up to the doorstep of my now favourite bar. Nodding to the toad on its bench (and getting a croak in return), I push open the door, and seat myself at the bar counter. My bartender takes a look at me, and quietly puts together my favourite mocktail without any mockery. In fact, he takes so much mockery out that it’s practically alcoholic.
While I nurse my second glass, he regales me with yet another tale.
Part of my job includes taking photos, and one time I had to muck about with a ship in a tub. However I mucked it, it still insisted on being a ship full of water, heading down.
After beating back yet another bunny that had inexplicably poked its head around my door to look at what I was doing, I threw in the towel. I got on my hrududu and made my way to my now favourite pub for my mocktail fix.
Not for the stories of course. Though my regular bartender had one ready for me.
Twas later in the day, and weird creatures were flooping and flopping around the sundials and what not. Probably meant that it would rain, so I made my way down to the now somewhat familiar pub for my mocktail fix.
The same barman was there, and I perched on an empty barstool, looking at him expectantly as he polished the bartop. He smiled and quietly prepared the same mocktail as he’d done before.
Then he spoke.
The bartender nods as I enter. What’ll you have, he asks. Wiping down the bartop as all good bartenders do.
Anything is good. I’m only sheltering from the rain. He asks me if I’ll get a more expensive mocktail. In return he’ll tell me a story – and if I don’t like either, it’s on the house.
So I sit, sip and listen.