Down the Pole

A late drink at the North Pole, three pints of Guinness in about 40 minutes, and I arrived home in a mind-racing state and was gabbing and up and down for pees until after 2. Last orders and then a lock-in with a handshake from John, mein host, and a hug and kiss from Margaret, attentive wife at the end of the bar, as we unbolted the door on our way out. I liked it in there because it made no effort to change to suit the arrival in E14 of yuppies and City types. John offered all sorts of fanciful excuses for the sometimes poor state of his Marston's Pedigree, once blaming the cellar's proximity to the chilly dock (it was 100 yards away...effing liar). It was the company local, much preferred to the themed watering holes on the Wharf. Some monstrous nights were had in there. I seem to recall being stupified by too many sausages at Prof Madhouse's leaving do in 2001, and, worse, getting so pissed on Kronenbourg that I collapsed in the bushes near the London Arena some time at the end of the 1990s and woke up half an hour later shivering and disoriented. Also, it was great for lunches - egg, chips and ham for a couple of quid with big slices of bread and butter thrown in. The temptation though, was always to sup too much. Jones the Breakdown, Gaffer and I were nightly attenders for a while and I dread to think how much we passed over the bar. Maybe I can still go in for lunch occasionally: it's one stop on the Tube and a 10-minute walk, for God's sake.

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The rain is coming straight down outside and no blue is to be seen in the easterly sky. Autumn drabness, and in my mind's eye there are the pavements, shops and housing blocks on Jamaica Rd soaked and droplets being held by surface tension on the park railings and leaves rotting on the path. The buses go by, windows steamed up, glum faces.

The time is ticking down to the point where I have to go to work. This is one of the few disagreeable things about keeping these hours - knowing every day that only a certain amount of seconds and minutes can be devoted to idleness, pleasure and domestic chores. I never thought this would happen, but I seem to have arrived in middle age with the idea that, while enjoyable, work is also just a bloody nuisance and I would much rather be free of it, though, of course, keeping the salary. Does everyone get like this or have I become cynical overnight? Oooof, how unattractive.