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Thursday 15th October 2015.

The weekend is just beyond the rooms curtain, the ticking clock has neither farted or protested over such an occasion the constant tick vibrating across the walls is one of the few things that has not changed in Sixty years....it is neither boring or wrapped around the top of a bottle of Stout...stood still on a bar top waiting for warm hands to release the full flavour as it foams over the cusp of the dark bottle spilling on to the bar top, that small rush of foaming mirth... is it a waste, or sentiment that some old times are worth capturing if only in the imagination of old ghosts and those whom during this weekend will ask for a bottle of Stout.....
Quite why a bottle of Stout has entered this blank white screen.. is unknown it was not my intention to sit and scribble about Stout...perhaps it reminds me of something else..as i cannot quite remember when i last stood at a bar and requested such a treat...Dear old crones used to drink Stout back in the days when i could just see over the bar top they had their own special glasses for the dark stuff...standing at the bar with thier grumpy old other half, whom stood rack straight in silent mode in a cloth cap and perhaps a pipe clasping a pint of Bitter.... i always thought that i would never end that way i was so determinded that was not how i saw life but perhaps as i am almost breaking the ticker tape to that age i indeed wonder...in whoms image we become...So Goeth...

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