I awoke with a start the day after Keith’s wedding.
With a glance at my watch I could tell that I’d already missed my train – at this point in time, my immediate worries were more based around my physical predicament rather than my transport home.
My years of drinking usually put me in good stead for a solid session, but apparently I’d been in particularly energetic form the night before. I groaned as my brain pushed at the edge of its skull casing, desperately seeking for a way to seep through my face. Attempting to rally my senses, I stopped to consider what had happened the night before, how had I lost control of my faculties? Should I have not drained a 4-pack of Stella before getting to the wedding? Should I have stopped drinking after the first bottle of Prosecco or the second?
Thankfully, I’d found a bed in the centre of Birmingham and I was just a cab ride away from a solid pie and pint.
Now, I would never go as far to say that I’m an advocate of day-time drinking. I usually hold with the classic ‘6pm rule’ when it comes to drinking, often finding that if I start any earlier then it can be a real challenge to make it out of the gutter the next day. Despite breaking this particular rule the day before (and subsequently paying the price for it) I knew that the only way that I was going to make a quick recovery and return to Truro in one piece was by partaking in the ‘hair of the dog’. I settled up with the smirking receptionist on the ground floor and hailed a taxi, ordering the man to take me to the nearest pie and pint.
A short drive from the centre of town lies The Village, less of a pub and more of a family-friendly bistro, when I arrived there was already a number of patrons there complete with their offspring. Although I usually baulk at any boozer that positions itself in the family-friendly market, I was in no position to be picky and the cabbie informed me that there was no better pie in the city. I pushed my way in, expecting to be assaulted by a wall of screaming children but was surprised to be greeted by a quiet murmur of mothers conversing, the lower rumble of middle-class father timorously discussing the football and the occasional bubble of cherubic laughter.
A sigh of relief later I had sunk myself into a deep leather chair and ordered their Hand-Raised Pie of the Day along with a pint of their weakest ale. I started out cautiously, unsure of what effect these foreign bodies would have on my fragile system. Thankfully, with every sip and mouthful of pie I found myself reinvigorated. Within half an hour I was gamely wolfing down the remnants of the pie and happily quaffing the rest of my pint, half-considering ordering another one for the road…
I decided against staying, knowing full well how a second pint before midday could change the course of my day, opting instead to nurse a bottle of wine on the long train ride back home.