
This short story of 499 words is my entry for a writing competition being run on Zak Avery’s excellent ‘Are You Tasting The Pith’ blog over in the UK where the theme is beer and time. Rather than relying on my normal – some might say flippant – style of writing I wanted to experiment with something a little darker, more brooding and touch on subjects many fellow bloggers might secretly relate to, even if they don’t want to admit it. After reading it you may think my ‘real life’ wife is on the brink of leaving me. This clearly isn’t the case….is it sweetheart?
I sat there alone staring at the hands of the pub clock as they swept inexorably around and wondered whether there was time for a cheeky last pint.
I was suddenly griped by an overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. After all, isn’t time all I’ve really got left since all the problems with my blog began?
It had started innocently enough a few months ago after a boozy session with Harold the pub’s resident unkempt, bearded CAMRA guy who suggested I started a beer blog.
I began by posting the occasional beer review, excited to use new words like hoppy, citrusy (even though that really isn’t a word) and malty – words stolen from the countless Ratebeer entries I hungrily consumed every day.
It wasn’t long before I was following dozens of fellow beer bloggers and my morning trawls through the ‘beerosphere’ started replacing breakfast.
The wife was amused at first, even encouraging me to pursue my new-found hobby. I swear I could see the relief on her face that someone else could now suffer my constant moans about diacetyl and cask breathers.
Over the next few months I spent more and more time feeding my blog. And the more I posted the more comments I received, every one of them an addictive ego fix, a heady rush of belonging.
Soon whole evenings were lost in front of the computer, fingers dancing over the keyboard now, commenting, tweeting, trading and endlessly checking Google Analytics.
It wasn’t long before even X-factor or Emmerdale could hide the cracks in our relationship. ”You love that bloody blog more than you love me”, she’d often shout.
Once, just to prove I didn’t, I took her for a night out to the city. Things were going fine until I saw they were having a Marble Brewery night at the Old Pithy and I had to go in and try a pint. It wasn’t until I was ordering my second that I noticed she had left.
Despite all this I was still genuinely surprised the afternoon I got home after work and stepped through the front door into an empty living room.
All that remained was a cheap pine table on which sat my computer, quietly humming. Carefully balanced on the keyboard was a handwritten note from her telling me she’d left me for Derek, the thin-lipped, greasy haired landlord from the pub in the next village. I couldn’t help smiling at the irony of it all. Only last week I’d written a review of his pub on the blog, complaining about his dirty lines.
Staring up again at the clock on the wall I notice the hands had now worked their way to 11 o’clock. The jarring sound of the bell shook me out of my thoughts.
“Time gentlemen please”, declared the bored looking barman.
Rather fitting, I thought, as I drained the last flat drop of beer from my glass, that my blog should be called just that, and headed off home alone.
(Ps: Zak – I know I’m rather flirting with your ‘No Time at the Bar’ rule but hope this story’s other references to time will help pull it through
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