My lager sat on the windowsill.  Behind it traffic buzzed, pedestrians ambled and the ubiquitous riff-raff loitered outside MacDonald’s.  It was remarkably engaging.  Life is fascinating when viewed through a pint glass.  The bubbles danced in time to Radiohead, or perhaps Radiohead were playing in time to the bubbles, but what caught my attention was the chap at the bar.

Coat folded neatly on the bar, hat balanced expertly on top, his usual drinking routine I suspect.  Faded t-shirt stretched over his belly.  Horizontal stripes never flatter.  An unusually prominent bottom lip made him look like a man who is perpetually displeased.  A nose like a parrot’s beak,  jet black hair that – given his age – had to be dyed.  He had all the deportment of a gloomy cockatoo. On his left wrist was the tiniest watch I have ever seen. Anorexic black strap and a minuscule face.  Seriously, it was so tiny that I can only suppose he had stolen it from a doll.

He checked his watch repeatedly, his manner was that of a wanted man.  He lifted the beer slowly, peered in the top and then slowly rotated the glass as he scrutinised it from the side. Humph, his expression said, the beer clearly disappointed and he glared at it morosely.  He put down the glass with a melodramatic sigh, shot a few conspiratorial glances around the pub, grabbed his coat and hat and left in a hurry.  But what was behind the suspicious behaviour?

I suspect the infamous Doll Mafia are after him.





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