Another Friday, another restless afternoon battling a hankering that only comes knocking at the height of warmth and winter. One that creeps up to ensnare its victim on a Thursday evening; when the proverbial tie comes undone and the decompression has begun.

There are weaker moments to follow when it will catch its prey fully aware. The last meeting endured. The last phone-call made. The last email sent. The last scan of next week’s diary advertising the hardships to dread with all the force of Ken Dodd’s tickle stick. The last slam of the door shut till Monday.

It’s Friday. It’s the first one in gets them in. The first clink of the glasses mid-air. The first joke cracked. The first yarn spun.

For some of us, it was always that moment between the last sip of the first, and the first slip of the next. With our lip to the precipice of bonhomie and break-through. To The Present. It could be a long way down but we were willing to risk it. Just the one…time of the week to let it all go.

Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the pub to see his mates. To blather and belly-laugh his way into the here and now. In the one place where you’re judged by your character and ability to hold your own, not the letters that trail your name. Where one person’s laughter is the background to another’s loss. Where bosses are skewered on a stream of consciousness. Where no-one is conscious of time passing.

Our relationship with drink goes a long way down, but we know a charming tour guide of the soul when we hook up with one. And though long broken up, the longing can still come knocking, as loudly as ever.

Just the one… fleeting thought of a pint leads back to the last sip of the first, before the first sip of the next. Freeze it there. To before I moved away and waved goodbye to my people. Before other people started drinking. In. Their. Houses. Before wine became a hobby before ending up as a personality trait. To Friday.

To The Pub.

*raises cuppa*

Sláinte

She watched her friend’s train pull away with an odd mixture of hope and hassle. In a way it was the ideal parting that left no time for ever-increasing goodbyes to work their way up to the size of a tumbleweed that they’d have to awkwardly hug around; but ultimately disappointing that there wasn’t enough time to hug at all and pay homage to her brilliance with snotty tears and rambling.  There is no greater compliment. Her friend has a supernatural knack of transforming her tiny house into that little bit more of a home whenever she visits.  Just by being in it. Like an open fire everyone warms themselves up against. And that sort of magic transcends earthly description. But thank her, she did. And for pushing ajar the doors of their pasts and helping release some unwelcome residue back into the psychological wild.

Even her wee one continued to grieve her absence all week. She would lie up on her parents’ bed and look out through the window forlornly declaring that she missed her, as an apropos of staring into the middle distance. All very film noir until the thumb was popped back in the gob. She’s so wonderful with her, and the little one only revels in her rays of good humour that detonate her own in return.

It’s now day three of their new healthy living pact but she’s feeling the benefits already. She got such a fright when she stepped on the scales that it knocked the hunger pangs clean off her. They must’ve skedaddled a right distance, even in their grossly unfit state, as there’s no sign of them re-appearing. Not even for a sneaky Curly Wurly, or a muffin, which is closer to the wholesome home-baked goods end of the confectionery spectrum and other misinformation for which she also has a fatal weakness.

No, make no mistake, she thinks, (She stole this from a colleague as it sounds a convincing opener. But then she also once believed that female police officers couldn’t carry guns during PMT) this is a novel shift. Less the temporary euphoria of her usual new beginnings of yore, than a recognition of a change of enemy. She teared-up on the scales but hasn’t looked back since. She drove home, past the petrol station she had eyed-up on the way over, counting up every pound as a self-inflicted stab-wound on her worth. So whatever way she’s managed to reconcile emotion with reason, she’s already feeling lighter, and willing to plod the long road back to health.

Fear not, she emphatically has no notion of defecting to the evangelical side, and vows to continue scoffing mildly at the group talk while clapping a little too enthusiastically at John shedding that four pounds. “Round of applause for John, everyone”. Come on. That’s still pretty impressive whichever side of the sneering fence you’re sitting on, she thinks, forgiving her stray into high-fiving territory. She also thinks there’d better be serious whooping and hollering for her next week. It’ll be like re-writing school history. Take that, Sr. Gabriel! Two fucking pounds!

No, she hasn’t surrendered the compulsion to find the comedy in everything. But sometimes the jokes aren’t funny anymore, not even the one about her Jack Charlton comb-over; and no-one laughed at her crying. Just wait till she gets that half-stone pink certificate and then they’ll all see who’s the loser.

Scene One

“Ignorance of the law is no defence”

“For the love of God. Someone have mercy and take me away from this upstanding citizen morally riding my degenerate arse.”

“I’m just saying”

“Ah yeah. Of course you are. Mister petty pinstripe lording it over the lowly Primarks”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

[I actually haven’t a notion]

“Nothing. You couldn’t possibly understand” (dramatic nose-fling narrowly missing a neck-cramp)

Scene Two

A second-glance in the rear-view mirror. Definitely flashing lights. Hang on, there’s only me on the road. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

That’s right, roll the driver’s window down just as Poncherello opens the passenger door there to register evidence of my nasty Werther’s Original habit. Helpful. Even better, he sits on the evidence. I think there might’ve been one left in that bag.

Observed using mobile two miles back. Caution. Fine. Seven days to present licence.

“Do you wish to say anything?”

“Toffee?”

“Absolutely guilty”

That sounded weirdly jaunty. Even by jaunty standards.

Scene Three

“Silence in the court room. All rise”

This is like mass. I’d swear he just bowed before the altar. Why are all the female legal eagles wearing black? It’s hardly their funeral. If those three were a few years younger with shorter skirts and a low-strapped guitar each, they could pass for a tribute act to Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love video. How do they all say “Your Worship” with a straight face? He can’t be a solicitor; he’s like… 12.

*cuts to mirage of advice dispensed in kitchen that morning* “Speak to prosecuting solicitor. Fine paid next day. Explain EU licence [slightly zone out at this stage but manage to conceal it well] Nordie licence applied for.”

Done.

“So you’ve no legal representation?”

“Eh. No. I’m representing myself” *Robert Palmer video model pout*

“OK, well, we’ll get it sorted. You step forward before the judge when you hear your name called. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

I’m not so confident.

“Will I have to say ‘Your Worship’?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so”.

I knew it. She thinks it’s all a bit ridiculous, too.

I take my place among my fellow crims and we immediately form an alliance against the press gathered adjacent. My Mother-in-Law hadn’t entered my head until now. All I can think about is her leafing through the paper to discover I have brought further shame on the family. She knew this day would come once I’d refused another helping of her Malteser Cheesecake and we’d settled on a registry office wedding.

Scene Four

“You can’t just drive right in. This is a police station!”

How remiss of me to mistake that vast concrete area with white boxes for a carpark. “Staff only, I’m afraid”. Right enough. Paramilitary threats don’t usually show up in a ten-year old clapped out family car littered with Werther’s Original wrappers driven by a Wurzel Gummage look-alike, but it’s a bit soon to be letting any old middle-aged civilian in.

“The thing is, I’ve an Irish driver’s licence”. Side-ways head seeking maximum sympathy and understanding included. This trusty tactic belly-flops in front of both of our faces.

Proper licence needed for this jurisdiction. Summons likely. Best change it over.

Scene Five

Four rings in with no answer. Sufficient time for a smirk to hatch around the lip edge. By seven, I’ve gone to the giggle side.

On the eighth…

“Hen!” (even friends have odd terms of endearment)

*Mutley wheeze*

“What is it?”

*more Mutley wheezing*

“I’m up in court in the morning”

She Mutley wheezes.

It’s true what they say. You find out who your real friends are when you get into trouble.