Beer sleep

As I’m down in Guildford on a regular basis at the moment, Phil – mine uber-agent – feels impelled to get together for a small glass of sherry every now and then. It takes him away from his lovely wife and kiddies, but he struggles through it, because he feels it is his duty. He certainly doesn’t enjoy drinking beer and eating bacon frazzles. No, no, no, no, no…

Last night involved a couple of small ales in a wee pub at the end of the High Street, wedged between a VERY LOUD PUB QUIZ, a speaker playing vintage rock and roll, and an open mike music thing. Like being in the middle of an extremely noisy Bermuda triangle of sound. So we drank up fast, and then had another one, so as not to be rude. Then on to a bit to eat, where we were savaged by a bizarrely-enthusiastic Canadian hockey player waiter who forced us to eat steak and drink beer. And then drink more beer on top of that. It’s a hard life ;}#

Just gotta hope Phil doesn’t get in too much trouble for picking up the tab – or getting home so late. I tried to split it with him, but even though he’s small (four foot three at last count), he can be a tenacious terrier at times.

P.S. mucho beer + hotel bed = more sleep than usual, but bloody weird dreams involving government spooks and ferrets.