I'm just back from my first pub outing with Andrew since he became de-crippled. His final cast was pealed away on Monday. The busted leg is officially back in one piece.
He's still not the fastest when it comes to walking. I told him that back in my day, children were back at work an hour after having both legs crushed. He doesn't believe me, the bastard. I blame television. All those documentary channels. They've left him way too informed about the past.
His slow pace is why we picked the new pub on the square as our destination. By the time we got to The Pub That Shall Not Be Named, it would be time for bed. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
"Andrew, you should go for a walk. You haven't been out today."
"Muuum, Family Guy has just started."
"We could go to the pub."
"I'll get my coat, Dad."
It was genuinely a joke. This time.
Been a bad week illness-wise. A cold descended on Tuesday that left me breathless, breadless, beerless and watching a Bass Charrington promo from the early 1970's. Seeing their execs fly over the Runcorn site sipping canned Carling was the perfect emetic. Better out than in. (How many times have I said that in a pub bog?)
I'd not had a beer for four whole days. And I was wearing grey socks. I still went. Didn't want to disappoint the lad.
"You didn't cough in the pub, Dad."
Lexie's right. As soon as we got back I started coughing. I've entertained my colleagues all day with my impression of a comsumptive's death throes. By the time the time comes, I'll be perfect at it, I've had so much practice. I blame my mother. And her family's defective lung genes.
I'm trying to remember what the pub's called. And contemplating why I didn't cough there. Probably some English social embarrassment thing.
"What's that pub called, Andrew?"
He's gone upstairs. I hadn't noticed. Listening to Iron Butterfly on the headphones.
Disclosure time: I drank two Duvels, Andrew two vaasjes, Lexie two quadruple vodkas. We paid for them all.