Go On, Go On, Tell Me.

So, it’s been all of five hours since I’ve written anything.

Apart from a drinks order.

On repeat.

I like to be organised. And respect my servers. Happens too rarely. But, you know, it’s nice to be nice.

I would’ve appreciated a considerate customer in my bar serving days. The fact that one of the servers is your son makes it all the more imperative that you make life easy for them. Isn’t that what we do?

Bhoyo number one is off to Thailand for a month with his girlfriend. Backpacking. Just to keep my worry levels at optimum. His privilege. My job.

Not content with not even having packed yet he insisted we all go out for a meal and a few drinks. Being the responsible adult I am – I bloody am! – I volunteered chauffer service.

I like driving. Not on motorways though.

They scare the bejaysus out of me.

Unless they’re empty. Then it’s full throttle and thrills.

I just don’t like other drivers. Or people, sometimes.

Especially lots of people. Gathered together. In pubs. Or clubs. Or shops. Or roads. Anywhere really. Nothing against people, per se. I just hate the noise. And the absence of self-control too evident where many are gathered. Think football crowds. That sort of thing. Hate’s really not too strong a word.

Anyway, I digress.

Driving.

I volunteered. Somewhere reasonably handy. Within walking distance for some. A pub that does meals and lets under eighteens in until 9 o’clock. My eldest daughter’s local. If she had a stile in her back yard she could be there in under a minute.

Not my fault it takes her and her fiance about five. And, considering Joe, eldest bhoyo, is staying with her tonight, and has a long flight tomorrow, we figured there was best.

I once worked in this pub. For one night. Whole other story and my digressions make stories way too long as it is. Ask anyone. Apparently, knowing the finer details may not be necessary. Unless humorous. And then it’s, ‘ Oh, go on, tell us!’

This is not the time.

But we got there, me behind the wheel, wondering what delights this newly renovated pub may hold in store for my empty belly. Rumblings just beginning to make their voice known. Funny how a sunny day and a pile of washing can preclude thoughts of food.  I was starving. Well, hungry, at the least. Nothing could put me off whatever joys they had to delect my tastebuds.

Nothing, that is, except a crowd of weans and adults whose parental responsibility was left behind the glittery, ‘Happy 30th’, banners.

Want to know what a teacher’s night out does not consist of? Guess. Yup. Weans. Worse than weans. Adults. Adults who see an arrow pointing to ‘Beer Garden’ and abandon weans to their own mischief.

Well, I’m sorry – no, I’m not – but if you take weans out with you, Mind Them. Exclabloodymation point. Mind them! They’re yours. And I’m off-duty. And is it any wonder teachers want to bitch slap lots of parents instead of the weans?

So, we didn’t stay there. Couldn’t.

That would have been like being in charge of a class while not having the authority to do anything.

I did a bit of ferrying. And, hey presto! My other son’s place of some time employment.

And it were luvverly. Some weans. Loads of adults. But they weren’t too noisy. Is it really just me?

And the Balmoral Chicken was a feast for empty guts. Breast of chicken, bacon- wrapped, mounds of haggis.

Feckin’ waaaashin’ and sunny days. Forgetting to eat. Shall I complain? Not a bit of it.

Not until I nipped out for a cig to the beer garden in this establishment to partake of a nicotine fix and was accosted on the way by a kid from my own class! At which point, introductions all round, a ‘See you on Monday’ dismissal and I was ready for a drag. Lovely, lovely child. Truly. One of my loveliest kids. Including my own! But not on a night out.

Anyhow, the purpose of this long-winded regaling is to ask what the rules are in your neck of the woods. At 9 o’clock, on the dot, weans are ousted from all establishments where alcohol may be consumed.

Mark you, I’m not complaining. I have enough weans in my everyday life without having them all around when I’m relaxing. And, it’s taken us long enough here in Scotland to let them in at all.

Jeez, at one point, you couldn’t take them in for lunch. I remember being humiliated, on our own national behalf, as a French couple, with two kids in toe, were unceremoniously ousted from a pub because, ‘No Kids at all at all’ was the rule. Right across the board. Didn’t matter if you were only in for eats or not. The look of astonishment on that couple’s faces and the thought of how they would explain the archaic was a wonder to me then. Still is. In some ways.

What happens at the magical hour of 9 o’clock that means all kids must leave? Do all adults decide to have an orgy then? I’ve obviously missed that. Bugger! Or are the sleep police monitoring kiddie bed times?

Feck me. I don’t know.

I do know I’m home with my two youngest. We were having a smashing time. But it ended. They kinda want to know why we had to leave.

Not all of us, mark you. Being a good and obedient wife and mother  a tired auld fart with a full belly I was quite happy to come home, let them watch a bit of Nickleodeon while I bored you all to death with a Grouse in one hand and a fag in the other. (different fag, for the benefit of the Us of eh? )

So hubs is still out with my two eldest, their respective partners, a fistfull of dollars, no weans and a curfew that weans can only envy.

Me? Happy as a pig in the proverbial.

Silence reigns. Folk there are none of.

If they all come back here, I’m kidding on I’m sleeping. That’s what all kids do when they’re caught enjoying themselves alone. I’ve heard.

Slainte! And shh! Kids are almost sleeping and mum’s the word. Lots of them, apparently. :/ But that’s Grouse for you. Well, that, and I just like talking. As long as there aren’t not too many people around going, ‘Go on, go on’. Then you can’t shut me up.

What do you mean this goes public?! Ah, feck it, go on.

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9 thoughts on “Go On, Go On, Tell Me.”

  1. Hahahaha. I would love to share a pint in your neck of the woods. I gave up fags more than 25 years ago but it sounds like fun to share one. Honestly I typed that before I read it, sorry.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Never be sorry, Pam. Especially not for innocent. I think sometimes I’m very much an innocent abroad. My eldest daughter just came back from a long weekend in Amsterdam and, as you can imagine, the rights and wrongs, the pros and cons were all discussed (amid little ears, in code!) and we all have so much to say on the merits and demerits of …..pretty much everything! One day, I believe this, we will chat over a glass or two and, if we don’t serve the world to rights, we’ll have fun attempting. Weans! Big weans! Keep you on your toes. I’m dancing pirouettes. With Irish thrown in. And, somehow, weirdly,enjoying it! Long live the young. At least until they’re old enough to know better. Whole other philosophical context there. If you’re up for it I am! 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Rules about the same here, but I think the owners of the weans know not to go past 9pm because the alcohol brings forth the dreaded ‘monster’.
    You know, that animal caged within the breast of this meek, peaceful man who wouldn’t hurt a fly….until they sip that first drink. Then the change begins…constant talk…louder talk…filth spewing forth from who knows where…dribbling and spitting as it comes out.
    Then the Pièce De Résistance, the bit that they all seem to reach when some innocuous comment is regarded as an affront to his manhood and they swing the first punch and then it’s on for all.
    Never having been in that category, I am one of those happy drunks. One drink and I’m anybody’s, two drinks and I’m everybody’s 😀
    We must be getting old or something momus 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Definitely the ‘or something’, Mark. I can’t go loud or obnoxious drunks. Singing ones are ok if they pass my window and they’re obviously enjoying their inebriated happiness. But if it’s football songs and anthems and any sort of vitriole I hate it.
      Probably best right enough that the kids are out of that possibility. I’d be off my mark too if it got to be any way like you describe. Happy songs and jokes and a load of dancing is more my cuppa when I’m having more than a cuppa. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  3. What kind of poem is this? It doesn’t rhyme at all? Just kidding. If a place is a bar here where the primary purpose is drinking, weans generally are not allowed but if it’s a pub/restaurant there doesn’t seem to be any curfew for the kids.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Well, the first is true here. But, if food is served, kids can be in until 9pm. Then it’s all out. Right enough, when I’m out without my own kids I don’t want anyone else’s around!

      Liked by 1 person

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