Oozing attitude – don’t mess with us, mate –, the owls catch my eye. Judgmental lot.
I won’t return to this pub – terrible choice of wall decoration, puts punters off their beer when they go the loo. The owly death stares remind me of Rita. She’ll, no doubt, give me one of hers when I stumble in later.
On the return leg, I focus on the stag – doe-eyed like Melli. She’s waiting, no doubt – I said I’d come back to hers. But I catch another glimpse of the owls’ disapproval. Smug lot.
‘Okay, owls, you win. Home to the wife it is.’