What's happened to the CPT?

[Sue]

Just gone to the CPT on the way back from a pleasant afternoon at the Magnolia.

No beer at all???

Not on any of the pumps????

Not one????

And no apology, just "no, no ale".

Erm, OK, shan't be going back there in a hurry then :-S

Shame - they used to do Broadside once :-S

[Keef]

I guess they'd just run out of real ale. Not a reason to never go back to the place.

[Ted Max]

At 9:15pm on Monday night, the clock keeps time in the lounge bar; each click shepherding the three single occupants, sentries to unspoken worlds, a second closer to the bus home, the half-heated tin of Cream of Tomato soup, the redundant setting of the alarm clock for the morning's potential-free reveille.

From the front bar, the sound of banter. Never so alienating in its jolly exclusivity.

[Jimbob]

and i bet they don,t even do cash-back

[standswithfist]

they do cash back i've had it from there about 4 weeks ago. just before i got setanta!

[Ted Max]

Quiz night. Before the chattering contestants start to eye your table, you move to the front bar - wilting from the sarcastic comments and the candle lights.

Seated at the bar you silently answer every overheard question, winning week after week. Special Subject Round this week: Transport. You remember some of the questions from three years ago. You decide not to award yourself the win, as it doesn't seem fair.

Eyes raised to the muted Sky Sports News, you realise you are lip-reading. You cannot remember when you learnt to do that.

[Ted Max]

Friday. In come the after work crowd. Gin and lager. Perfume and twenty pound notes in the air to attract attention.

You finish your pint and head to the loo. By the time you come out, a new pint is waiting on the bar. You take it, leaving the exact money stacked inside the damp ring the glass has left on the towel. No chance for a quick word with the barmaid.

Someone makes a remark about how long it is taking the "f*ckin' builders" to finish off the flats opposite. You'd only just been thinking to yourself how quickly they'd risen, remembering the demolition of the previous house.

Tonight it's a stop off at the Fish and Chip shop. Friday Fish. You used to enjoy a chat but the guys you know all work on the Kebab side now, and the chicken in there doesn't agree with you. Never had a kebab either, wouldn't know what to ask for and would feel embarrassed doing so.

Kids outside with their cans of pop and a dog snuffling for discarded chips. You'd love to have a dog, but he wouldn't be allowed in the pub. So you had to make a choice.

The weekend looms in its vast certainty.

[Brendan]

I?m enjoying the literary bent today Ted.

It?s actually making me feel like a pint in the CPT

[Jah Lush]

You're very poetic today Ted. I took my mate's dog in there the other week. Not a problem these days. Met a very nice couple in there a couple of weeks back who had their dog in tow too. I agree with Sue here though. It's a pub and for a pub to run out of real ale is a cardinal sin. A yellow card for the CPT methinks.

[Ted Max]

Why thank you. I should point out that this gubbins is meant in no way to be snide about the CPT. I had a particularly quiet pint in there the other night, is all, and it sort of came back to me when I saw Sue's post about a pub with no beer.

I am delighted my hero would be allowed a dog. I was beginning to feel rather sorry for him.

[Moos]

I thought for a moment that the kids outside were his. But then I realised that wasn't possible. Looking forward to reading the next installments. Does he ever go home, and what's that like?

[Peckhamgatecrasher]

Ooh - did they have a packet of crisps and a bottle of pop? Ah, the good old days - when children knew their place.

[Ted Max]

Does he ever go home, and what's that like?

The question hangs in the air. The two barmaids pause, embarrassed to be caught speculating on your home life. "Pint of Southwold, please" you say. It's a true enough answer, you think.

The younger barmaid returns, giggling, to the front bar. A louder laugh follows, some seconds later. Male voices joining in this time.

Home. A basement flat, sorry Mum, end-of-terrace garden flat, bordered on two sides by a cemetery. It had never seemed right to move into mother's room after she'd gone, so you still sleep in the front bedroom, measuring the night by the footfalls passing the window. You like to judge the heft and tread of the passers-by, how many there are, guessing if they have far to go.

Upstairs there's a young family, who have replaced the aluminium double glazing with drafty-looking sash windows, taken down the nets, making a defiant display of their stripped-pine lives to the world.

Returning with your fish and chips, you pause as you open your flat door from the shared hallway. Descending footsteps presage the appearance of the young parents from upstairs, flushed in anticipation of a rare night out. Quickly, you duck inside your door; listen to them pass, cringing at the smell your take-away must have left in the hall.

An advanced guard of chips go inside two bits of bread, ketchup on top; you've finished the butty before even unwrapping the rest of the supper. Fish and the remaining chips now tumble onto the plate. Radio 3 you think, Brahms probably.

Home. Again.

[Keef]

You know the pub well! ;-)

[Ted Max]

Saturday morning, and you need to get your hair cut.

When mother was alive, you used to take her up the salon every month, and while you were there Karen would just give you "a quick tidy up". Couldn't face that again, so you started to head down to Keith's on Northcross Road. "Take a seat, sir", yesterday's Daily Mirror in the waiting area, Jazz FM on the stereo. A confederacy of men for whom having their haircut was just another chore, between getting your shoes re-heeled at the cobbler's next door and buying a bit of fish from the van on the corner.

What's Keith's now? A children's bookshop? A maternity shop? A shoe shop? Does it matter? You don't mind. All things change.

Now you go to Stru...Clippers, a bit further up. When you first looked in, at a quiet time on your day off, you were a bit taken aback by the tattoos and the piercings on the barber. But the guy was friendly. And he talked easily, sensing your need for him to take the lead.

You decide to walk down Underhill Road, get there early or there'll be a big queue. On one corner, there's a small patch of allotments where a house should be. Bomb damage? On the plot, two children are making a scarecrow. The girl is dressing it in an old jacket and a green felt hat. The boy is tying CDs to its arms. They are laughing, helping each other, giggling and bouncing with glee. Their dad looks on, shaking his head in mock-bemusement. Their shrieks clean the air.

"Are you alright mate?" The dad speaking. "Yes thanks," you say, "wind's cold this morning." You wipe your smarting eyes.

[annaj]

Ted Max, that one made me cry. No, really.

Not sure if I want you to stop or carry on.

[Brendan]

time to head to the pub?

[standswithfist]

pint, then write!

[Ted Max]

Blimey annaj. But I sense a happy ending. A pint, a dog, a pint, a chance discovery of the EDF, late-flowering love following a Forum drinks meet at the CPT. Might take a while to get there though.

EDIT: Needless to say, open to all to continue. Not sure I can sustain the People's Friend melancholia for much longer.

[Brendan]

I was finding it quite uplifting actually.

[Moos]

Hooked, absolutely hooked. Bring it on TedMax. Will we hear more of the tattoo'd barber, I wonder?

[Brendan]

I suspect he may be the love interest.

[Moos]

Yes, I thought so too! It was use of the word 'sensed' that made me think so. Could be a difficult road for our hero, but I feel he'll get there in the end.

[Brendan]

Maybe we should stop giving the plot away before it has had a chance to happen.

[HonaloochieB]

There's something about it that puts me in mind of Patrick Hamilton's Hangover Square.

The atmosphere and a sense of quiet frustration/desperation perhaps.

That one didn't end too well, hope it turns out better for our hero.

Fine stuff Ted, more power to you.