Birthday Boy

Today is Himself’s birthday and the poor fellow hasn’t been feeling well for the last few days, so he’s sitting on the sofa reading a book of Giles cartoons kindly given to him by Big Brother, with Mollie snoozing beside him and Bussie lying fatly on the computer chair (which he has now commandeered on a full time basis.)

I’m off to a writing meeting in Truro now and tonight, if the invalid has recovered sufficiently, we will have a drink at our local pub. This is run by the Reverend Barrington Bennetts, a renowned celebrity who rules his small kingdom with fiery eyebrows that draw together threatening trouble.

Barrington, as he is known, is also a priest at Falmouth Parish Church when he’s not behind the bar at the pub, and is married (but tries to avoid speaking to) his wife of rather more years than he cares to remember.

Many of the clientele have died off with advancing years, so those of us that are left view each other with relief when we step through the doors. Another one still alive.

A visit to this pub is an experience. The interior hasn’t changed for over 100 years and there is no food, no comfort and no music. Just real ale and lousy wine.

But the company’s good, and this must be one of the last Proper Pubs in Cornwall.

I love it.