Out Alone

          There’s a pub in Totnes that has the best food menu ever: bring your own! The concept makes a lot of sense, leaving the publican free to concentrate on curating the bar and the jolly pub vibe, while not having to take responsibility for a potentially cantankerous chef in the back. This formula for success may not be a novelty, I know, but it works especially well in this instance because it’s next door to a very fine takeaway joint that will bring your order, when it’s ready, to your table in the pub. That is, if you can get a table.

          I was there last week, on my own (by design), having arrived too early for a relatively obscure gig at a nearby venue. So, what better way to pass an hour than to eat and sup beforehand in a jovial, old-fashioned pub? Well, to have had company is one answer. A lively taproom can be a lonely place. And there is never a table for one. I was obliged to hang around until I got lucky and, when a couple vacated their table-for-four, I was quick to move in and claim it.

          Predictably, of course, I was soon approached and asked, politely, if I would mind sharing. Two blokes in their sixties, clutching full pints and wearing hopeful expressions stood before me. “Of course,” I said, “feel free.” But, in situations such as this, there is an assessment to be made about whether it is just the space you’re about to share or if conversation is included. I was engaged with my phone – the modern equivalent of reading the newspaper, a traditional way of being alone in a bar – but I paused to allow for any further verbal exchange.

          It became clear, however, that these two chaps had met up specifically to catch up. They had not seen each other for a while and they had no need to leaven their conversation with contributions from a third party. I reverted to my phone until, thankfully, the harried-looking girl from the takeaway appeared with my order, a family-sized chicken shwarma (without napkins), which I consumed, messily, as a captive audience to my table-fellows’ conversation. Although, ‘conversation’ is not really what I would call the lengthy and detailed account by one of the men of how he went about consolidating his various pension funds into a single, drawdown option. And that was before he started on his wife’s financial situation. Before long, I had the impression that his companion was beginning to regret not having invited me to join in, but it was too late to switch topics and, anyway, I was fully engaged in battle with a monster, dripping shwarma.

          But the monster had me beaten and I went in search of a bin for what remained of it. When I returned, the dynamic at the table changed. As the pension bore shifted his chair, it produced a loud cracking sound which alerted me (being an ex-furniture-maker) to looming catastrophe. I urged him to stand so that I could examine the structure which, sure enough, was on the verge of collapse. Manfully, I lifted it with the intention of effecting a temporary repair and, in the process, ripped open a fingertip on a protruding nail. The others gawped as I fished out a pocket-tissue to staunch the blood, then set off in search of first aid.

          The barman, mistaking the look of urgency on my face for thirst, launched himself towards the beer-pumps and enquired after my preference. “Actually, it’s a plaster I need”, I said, brandishing my finger. Although taken by surprise, he acted with alacrity and produced the necessary dressings. One of my table-fellows helped me apply the plaster (it’s difficult to do with one hand) and then it was time for me to leave.

          Going solo is a bit of a gamble, I reflected: one’s fantasies of exhilarating adventures don’t always materialise. Even the gig turned out to be a disappointment, though that’s another story...