Some Sundays I spend the morning hours drinking strong coffee made weak by an overly indulgent pour of milk and sit with friends in a delightful writing circle. We write for a period of 5-15 minutes, with no revision, and no edits based on a one line prompt that we then share with the group. I ADORE this practice. Here is my story based on the sentence prompt, “the only thing I don’t enjoy on a Sunday, written in about 7 minutes I think. Its one side of a conversation between and old man in a pub and the person who happens to be camped at the bar stool next to him.
If you can please read it in the voice of a somewhat drunk posh older english man.
“The only thing I don’t enjoy doing on a Sunday my dear chap is not going to the pub. HA. ONE must go to the pub, it is the seat, I say, the SEAT of culture. And joy. AND love. Love of your fellow man, which in these the most trying of times we need more of. And PINTS, oh lord have mercy on the soul of our beloved Queen does the world need more pints, and glasses of pinot noir or perhaps a nice Malbec maybe one from the Estate of my dear friend Jonny DoGood, that’s his real name you know. Moved from the emerald island years ago, so I hardly ever see him but each year he sends me a case of his finest Malbec, he named the best vintage after him self even, the DoGood Malbec. HA, what a laugh that Jonny, old Johnster, J Bones, that’s what we call him. Went to Harrow together. Yes we did, and what Aaaa time we had together. Whilst we were in third form, we really bonded, you know, came to be each others best bosom buddies. I have always liked that phrase; yes we became each others best bosom buddies, whilst we were in Macintosh hall under the supreeeemly insidious tutelage of the Heinous Dr. Royal Mackenzie. Awful chap, lazy eye. Never liked him. Never knew where he was looking. Sort of chills the soul that… ANYWAY, HA, PINTs. Pints of cider, never of beer. Beer’s make a man lose him self and become all weepy around the middle, like his flesh is sagging in a desperate attempt to run away from its master. BUT CIDER, cider like the Cider of this here Pint, the Cider of Plum Valley, is the stuff that makes a man! LOOK at me 53 and I could be 40. Could be 40, Maybe I am, Maybe I can just start saying ‘I am 40 world. Look at me, in my PRIME.’ OHHH prime, the only thing that makes a Sunday in the pub better is ordering a PRIME rib. HA, Ribs. I could make myself an Eve if I ordered this prime rib. HA just kidding, you can’t make a woman from a hunk of meat. Obviously, I mean HA, the idea. Imagine a person made from a rib. What’s that Barkeep…. YESSS barkeep I shall have two more pints, one for me; BARON VON DISSAPOINTED IN YOU. Ha just kidding THAT’s not my name. But you know that Barkeep.… See Jimmy the barkeep here is an old friend of mine. known him since my days at Eatlin Hall University, this pub used to be my local when I read English Lit-ah-ra-touree here, what was it… blimey… Thirty-so-odd years ago…. But yes one more pint of Plum Valley for me, and oh… Sorry old chap old buddy old friend, what was your name again…. Oh you Ne-ver told me… Well that’s ok, names are so superfluous I find, why have a name when you can have an EXPERIENCE, right Barkeep,… See friend I could use his name but Barkeep why its better!… What… oh no don’t tell me, id rather not know your name…. ANYWAY one pint of Plum Valley for me, and one of what ever my friend here is drinking. So we can make a toast. A toast to this Sunday! May it be Sundays for eternity. HA. Well, I guess I can’t make that toast now that I have said it to you. Its bad form to tell a toast to a friend before you both have a drink to hand. Bad luck it is. And we Bard’s, for that’s my last name. Why we believe in luck, both the good and the bad…. Why… oh because it pays to be superstitious. One never knows what might be real. And let me tell you. I’ve seen some things in my time that make a man question what is really there… ah your interested… I can tell from the look in your eye, well ASK NO MORE. I shall speak. HA! Once, when I was just in the budding days of my manhood I went with my family. The extended family. All 17 of us, up to the middle of nowhere in the highlands, it was quite near Glasgow.”
and there time ran out, as did this tale.