Your sanity may hang by a thread most of the week, but every once in a while your pride in your work trumps your strangled fantasies about burning the place to the ground and salting the earth so that nothing will ever grow there again. Thats never more likely to happen than when some schmoe decides to tell you do to do your job. How to pull a pint, how to mix a cocktail, how to pour a perfectly layered shot. When to call last orders, and legally how many minutes they have to drink up before leaving. Who to serve, and when. How much to charge for drinks - oh, thats a precious one, as if arguing about it could magically bring the prices down. The offending party could be in the trade; they could be a pub landlord. They could be Magic Golden Bar Genie Of The Year 2009-2013 straight, youd still pull their ears off and use them as bottle-openers if you werent on half a dozen cameras at once.
Professional writer, punk werewolf and nesting place for starfish. Obsessed with squid, spirals and story. I publish short weird fiction online at desincarne.com, and tweet nonsense under the name Jack The Bodiless. You can follow me all you like, just don't touch my stuff.
