Glories of the British pub

life

Mr. Bsag's next art exhibition starts tomorrow. He was frantically blasting spray-mount on price labels, while I was trying to produce a new architecture and design for his website, and cursing the day I ever decided to use a footer. We had both been slaving away indoors while the sun shone and the breeze blew balmily outside. We had had enough.

"Oh, let's go to the pub". Our local — the Mason's Arms — is a lovely, friendly Victorian pub, nestled in the hollow made by a former quarry. It has great real ale, and — more importantly for our purposes — a sunny beer garden. Half an hour with a pint or two of beer, a newspaper, listening to birds singing, and basking in the sun was just sufficient to restore a genial outlook on life.

What would we do without pubs?