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As I was telling a colleague this morning, there are no proper windows in the Vault, only one narrow strip of clouded glass, so I had no idea it was raining until the moment I was about to step outside. I say raining; actually it was a mix of rain and wet snow. Great big clumps of it. All melting as it struck the ground, not sticking even on tree branches or stone outcroppings.
A conversation about sausage rolls on FB had left me hungry for some, and an irritating morning of searching for materials that are simply unlocatable in our current chaos convinced me that a beer would not be too much of an indulgence, which is how I ended up at my local Irish pub. As usual, I came during the part of the day where the owners are running around trying to see to back-office matters before the evening rush. J. was nevertheless more chatty than usual, and we talked about cider and facial hair. Meanwhile, the proportions of the wintry mix shifted even more toward snow and flakes were falling in such tremendous aggregations it was almost cartoonishly unreal.
I thought I recognised a man sitting in the window as a former opera singer who'd once bought me a whiskey, but I wasn't 100% until I'd asked J. for confirmation. I offered to buy him a pint, but he politely declined. A while later, after I'd decided one sausage roll and Guinness does not a lunch make and was laying into some brown bread with cheddar and bleu, he came over and we chatted again. To jog his memory, I quickly steered the convo to opera once more, and he concluded by calling Sandy Rad one of the most "underappreciated" singers in the biz.
At that point, my lunch had lasted far longer than I'd intended and I knew I should be leaving myself, but I overheard J. discussing union membership with a friend and had to make mention of my years in the Teamsters. She was even more in a mood to talk away than your man R. and it was with some difficulty that I finally extracted myself. Sadly, the snow had ceased almost completely and I had to hustle back through a cold heavy drizzle--"Irish weather", as I called it on my way out.
A conversation about sausage rolls on FB had left me hungry for some, and an irritating morning of searching for materials that are simply unlocatable in our current chaos convinced me that a beer would not be too much of an indulgence, which is how I ended up at my local Irish pub. As usual, I came during the part of the day where the owners are running around trying to see to back-office matters before the evening rush. J. was nevertheless more chatty than usual, and we talked about cider and facial hair. Meanwhile, the proportions of the wintry mix shifted even more toward snow and flakes were falling in such tremendous aggregations it was almost cartoonishly unreal.
I thought I recognised a man sitting in the window as a former opera singer who'd once bought me a whiskey, but I wasn't 100% until I'd asked J. for confirmation. I offered to buy him a pint, but he politely declined. A while later, after I'd decided one sausage roll and Guinness does not a lunch make and was laying into some brown bread with cheddar and bleu, he came over and we chatted again. To jog his memory, I quickly steered the convo to opera once more, and he concluded by calling Sandy Rad one of the most "underappreciated" singers in the biz.
At that point, my lunch had lasted far longer than I'd intended and I knew I should be leaving myself, but I overheard J. discussing union membership with a friend and had to make mention of my years in the Teamsters. She was even more in a mood to talk away than your man R. and it was with some difficulty that I finally extracted myself. Sadly, the snow had ceased almost completely and I had to hustle back through a cold heavy drizzle--"Irish weather", as I called it on my way out.