DRIP-FED BETRAYAL

I'm not a great fan of theatrical asides . . .but . . . thank you for your emails, for there have been many. No, I haven't died, I have been away. Okay, not as long as all that, but sometimes the dark clouds of an unwritten sub-plot take away the will to be. A gradual, yet persistant, drip-fed betrayal, can, when the dose is becoming toxic, make a man lose self-belief and the abilty to free his expression. Well, I wish I could free my expression tonight, but my heart is heavy and it all seems slightly static.
Anyway, walked into the-worst-pub and once again had to traverse the north face of the bar to track down a member of the bar staff. Walked up to the smoking-table and joined Wilson, Talk-a-lot, Cool Hand, Cool Hands mate and the guy who drinks at lunch time. Talk-a-lot is telling all who will listen of the departure of his wife and kids and dear God it is the saddest tale there is to tell.
When I was away I was astounded that a group of random drinking parters from the worst pub in the fecking world were with me to the centre of the centre of me. As a stranger reminded me . . .Who wrote to me here . .Your drinking partners are friends. . . Real friends.