Symbolic Forest

A homage to loading screens.


An unwanted guest

On a night out

Was in the pub last night—well, afternoon really. We were having a quiet drink, when a mad drunk bloke suddenly attaches himself to us. And he won’t shut up. Or go away. Neither of us are brave enough to tell him to piss off, so we just sit there whilst he rambles on about his life, his likes and dislikes, and ogles every girl that walks past.

Fortunately, we were in luck: a couple we knew wandered past and lured him away, giving us a chance to nip out and run to another bar a long, long way away. We really didn’t want there to be any chance of him bumping into us again.

I wish I was better at dealing with guys like that. All I could do was sit and smile and say “uhuh” and “ah, yes” every so often, trying very hard not to giggle. I must have said about ten words in total, whilst he went on and on about how great it was when he worked on the railway, his skill with a shunting pole, how he hates “arseholes” and likes girls with large breasts. Here was him going: “She was a double-G cup, and a dirty girl too” and I was just sat there going “uhuh? Oh really? I see” and so on; thinking OHMIGOD GET ME OUT OF HERE.

More people-watching: in the second bar we went to, there was a very cute-looking couple stood by the bar. He was tall, dark, seventies-style shoulder-length wavy hair, beard and moustache; the beard only covering the parts under the chin. His outfit would have shouted “funeral clothes” on anyone else—black suit, white shirt, black tie—but it just went with his face and hair so nicely, it just made him look smart and in-touch. His girl was dark-haired and dark-clothed, came up to just about his shoulder, and lent her head against him.