The comfy chairs at the pub sit a little too low but they are in front of the fire, so I forgive them. Sitting here to write is a treat I afford myself because my desk is too untidy and I am avoiding dealing with it. Dealing with the untidy desk means dealing with the chaos of the last year or so and that feels a bit too much right now. How long I can sit idle whilst chaos chases me from my own house, I don’t know. At least another day or so.

I would normally have a booze-free evening, but they cleaned the lines and Pride is tasting too good to eschew. So I’m having a pint and watching the fire.

The pub provides ample food for the idle mind in the meantime. Even during the dark and quiet winter months. Even on the nights I don’t get the comfy chairs by the fire.

Sitting elsewhere the other evening a flustered Russian stormed in, demanded a pot of tea, black, and then found a table to drink that black tea whilst bashing the keys on his laptop with such ferocity I could only assume he was a spy requesting an immediate exit strategy. As the evening went on, more curious people arrived, asking for odd things and looking curiously out the windows. Apparently there had been an accident on the main road by the roundabout and all traffic west was blocked. Impatience is an uncomfortable vibe for a pub, so I made my way home, the anxiety and urgency of the tea-demanding Russian somehow triggering some of my own anxiety and urgency.

Not the sort of urgency that would lead to tidying my desk, of course. A more nebulous urgency. The sort that requires no immediate effort to placate.

I take care of the fire when I sit in the comfy seats. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before here, and know for a fact I mention it to the point of boredom and exasperation to those around me, but it is my firm belief that if you sit closest to the fire then you assume responsibility for that fire. That is the more than reasonable price for enjoying the warmth and beauty of the hearth. Anyway, I must put a log on. Excuse me.

I’d rather watch the fire in the hearth burn than the country of my birth set fire to all the good in the world, so I am trying to limit my news intake. There are only so many times I can scream and shout “what the fucking fuck is that fucking fuck doing?!?!” before I notice it impacting my blood pressure and resolve to layer up against the winter and walk over to the pub.

Looking for jobs is peculiar. It’s not something I’ve done for a long time. I don’t really know what I want to do. I’m not sure there are any positions for insufferable booze nerds with winemaking experience, and thus far nobody’s offered to pay me to drink ale and stare at the fire. Which is a shame, as I seem to be quite good at that.