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A Trip To The Barber's
When I logged on this morning there were 4 people viewing my profile. Heaven knows why, there's little enough going on here these days.
A poor start to the new month culminated in physical injury this week. Barber's Honey Beer*, it turns out, is one of those innocent drinks masquerading as a Mind Slayer. B-52s, by comparison, are a fair kop. Take on a drink named after a carpet-bombing war-machine and you can expect some damage. Embrace an ale who's name suggests Pooh and Piglet supping a beer in their rocking-chair dotage, you might think a sweet and gentle experience awaits. Not to feel like you've been slammed by tram.
I suppose seven or eight pints of any kind of beer is inviting trouble. At no stage did I feel remotely squiffy, until the time came to exchange farewells and rise from my bar-stool. As I reeled out of the place, stumbling up the cobbled street, turning slowly as if to load my inner Sat-Nav, I came into contact with something large and immovable. Down I went like a sack of spuds. The object moved, having loaded a few late-night revellers. Ah. That'll be the tram.
Peeling myself off the gritty tarmac I assessed the damage. Nothing too serious; a nasty-looking graze on an elbow, a sore shoulder, a scraped knee. Minutes later I was home, rolling into bed, cursing my 'misfortune'. Next morning I woke feeling like, well, I'd been hit by a tram. Three days later I'm still suffering. The sore shoulder is a constant nag, the elbow raw, my pride badly bruised.
Good job, then, that I return home from Rotterdam this weekend. I need to get back into the hills and take the fight to the enemy. Charliecat awaits, quietly painting the standard of the Jog Shop 20 on his Spartan shield. Work to be done. Much work.
*Triple-filtered Belgian ale, brewed by Barber. 8% ABV. Lethal.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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