My handbag smells of beer
Walking to work the other day, on the corner of the Lambeth Bridge roundabout stood a man, dressed in army fatigues, a grey t-shirt and a hat, swearing very loudly. When he wasn’t swearing he was swigging from a can of Fosters, it was 8:55am.
Fortunately, the pavements around the roundabout are quite wide and given the strong likely hood of being squashed by a bus if I tried to cross the road to avoid him, I carried on walking towards work leaving as big a distance between myself and 9am-drinking-man as possible.
As I was walking past he got pissed off with his beer and started swinging his arm, and the can of fosters very widely and vigorously. The beer went everywhere, all over the pavement, the side of the building, the passing cars and, most importantly, all over my coat and handbag.
I had to spend the day explaining to my colleagues that the stale smell of pub wasn’t because I’d started drinking for breakfast but because a tramp had thrown beer at me.
Bah!
This weekend I have mostly been:
On train journeys with cats and gin experts;
Drinking cocktails in Cardiff;
Comparing Drunk stories with Will (do ask him)