Friday night at the pub. Probably one of the quieter nights I’ve worked since starting there just over a month ago and would have also been one of the most boring if not for the trio of pharmacy ladies who were out celebrating the launch of their new range of incontinence knickers. You can’t make this shit up.
One of them, let’s call her Michaela, spent an unnecessary amount of time trying to convince me the new range was sexy, while my older gentleman co-worker cracked awkward jokes about wanting to see her knickers. Much fun was had at at the expense of the poor souls of the town who were in need of sexy incontinence underwear. I wasn’t previously aware there was such a need. Now I know.
Oh how they danced.
And Maggie from the bank, who loves a dance, joined in. I watch Maggie sometimes and just really hope that when I’m older I have as much vigour as she does. I mean, I don’t have any vigour now, so hopefully it shows up if I make it past 40.
Just when I thought watching middle aged women dance and sing along to Bon Jovi was going to be the evening’s highlight, a giant dog who sat on a ladies lap and whinged about his Mum being inside without him showed up and MADE MY FUCKING MONTH.
His Mum said he couldn’t come inside because he would have just been all over people and knocking other things over. His name is Ronnie. Ronnie. Adorable. And geez what an idiot. He got so excited about nothing that he knocked his water bottle over. His Dad is away at the moment so Ronnie’s been pining for him and I think his Mum needed some Ronnie-free time with a couple of Coruba and Colas. She had another dog, an old black lab called Max who was allowed inside and spent the better part of an hour and a half making laps and getting pats.
They all left together, Max with a firm hold on a stray piece of Ronnie’s rope. Disappearing into the fog like some beautiful illusion.