I don’t know know why this popped into my head tonight, but I started thinking about my first job. During school, my “job” was to get good grades, I wasn’t paid for it of course, but it did get me into University eventually, so that’s something! My first real job though, was bar tending. And perhaps I was destined to begin there, after all, my dad ran pubs before I was born and I was conceived in a pub… Yep, I’ll just leave that ounce of detail at that.
I loved my first job, for two years I tended bar in a tiny old mans pub, with regular customers, real ale on hand pulls and the deaf dog of the landlord, at my feet. I knew the patrons orders by memory, I knew their families, their histories and in that short time, sadly I saw some of their demise as well.
I quit that job when I was almost finished with University and had decided to spend 3 months in America with Curtis. From there I worked in two more pubs, neither of which had the same charm as that tiny pub I began in, with its beautifully manicured flower pots, rich wooden bat top, outdated “smoking room” and a history that gave me goosebumps whenever I went down into the cellar.
That pub is boarded up now, my boss and his wife retired, a Londoner took over and was unsuccessful, the economy took a steep drop and well, it’s a protected property at over 100 years old, but goodness knows if it will ever see years of patronage again.
The Pyle Cock Inn, Wednesfield, England