One more pretty beer garden, one more eavesdropped conversation. This time, two young hipsters with ridiculously overgrown whiskers. They were in deep, earnest conclave.
‘Why didn’t you just tell me you were gay when I asked you?’
‘Dunno.’
‘So you go and lock yourself in the toilet for hours? I was really worried.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Look, we’ve always been mates ain’t we?’
‘Sure.’
‘So what did you think I was gonna do? Tell you to fuck off?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Well, thanks a lot. What kind of arsehole do you take me for?’
‘Sorry, Zach.’
Judging by this and other posts about earwigging, you could be forgiven for thinking we spend all our supping days eavesdropping on the conversations of others. Honestly, we do talk to each other from time to time. Besides, I do like to take a little interest in my fellow man (and woman, of course). If it’s good enough for Her Maj’s secret services…
Now for some pretty pictures of the pretty beer garden at the pretty pub: The Plough, St Benedict’s Street.
