A Terrible Beauty is Born
You can’t go home again. Nothing is ever the same, and in the final analysis, the memories of what was are more richly sweet than what remains.
…hard times shared and stout pints raised…
This was illustrated to me, in some detail, the last time I visited “my pub”.
My pub was a sanctuary. A place where a pint and comrades met to escape the insanity of the dreaded office and the trolls of management that lingered there.
We met for lunch. We met after five. We started once a week and towards the end of the dreaded International Greed Enablemet Corp., we were there nearly every day. We were there so often, that we had our picture put up on the wall and were given the nickname “the Guinness Lads.”
But alas, it is gone. The picture is gone, a causualty of a rowdy night at the pub attened only by my image. The lads are scattered to the winds, and our more frequent revels are now occasional remembrances, of hard times shared and stout pints raised.
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