Oswald

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...

Ken: Ah.

Shane: You ok?

Ken: Yes. You going to the loo?

Shane: Yeah, I think we should go separately though.

Ken: No -

Shane: What?!

Ken: - no - I mean, yes - not that.

Shane: What?

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:


Returned:

Shane: Well there you go.

Ken: Mm.

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.