I met my old chum Ken, as he passed through the Midlands on a work-related mission. There was catching up to do and work to discuss.
New to me, the pub seemed humble. New to me also, Ken's hair appeared nothing short of lustrous - it had been a while since our last get together, such is our way. The pub landlord - a happy man - struck me as someone who had been struck, his smile not overly populated with teeth or the golden glow of good health. Still, Ken and I rolled the foody dice and placed an order.
With lunch gone (though not quite off), caught-upness having been achieved, and a work plan hatched, I rose to make for the loo. Rather suddenly, Ken seemed to become discomfited. 'That sandwich', I assumed. But no...
Shane: You ok?
Ken: Yes. You going to the loo?
Shane: Yeah, I think we should go separately though.
Ken: No -
Ken: - no - I mean, yes - not that.
Ken: Well, I remembered, er, you have to go out the back to get to them -
Shane: No problem.
Ken: - no, er, there's a sign -
Shane: There usually is.
Ken: - but it's a bit, well... you'll see.
I went to the loo and en route I spotted the sign:
Shane: Well there you go.
Shane: Nothing to wake the mind like some old skool racism, eh. The brewery must be proud.
Ken: It used to hang out front.
Shane: Mm. Back yard discretion a measure of progress?
Ken: Too generous - the landlord nearly just coughed a lung up into the peanuts on the bar.
Shane: Grab your handbag, dear, we're leaving.