lunch4

The stick holding the ballons feels warm. The paper around the stick is greasy. The ballons settle down. I take a swig of beer and let go of the stick. The women still stands at the beer with one half pint of lage. She doesn't tocuh her beer. Two old boys stare at the TV set. Some football comentators are on the screen. The man with gthe phone comes out of the toilet. He looks strangly rumpled. His tie is no longer straight. He straightens his tie and walks towards the woman at the bar.
He take the half glass of beer and drinks in one unhurried gulp. The volume on the TV increases, and speculation on some match mingles with the sound of a Saturday afternoon in the pub. The man and woman leave the pub into the bright sunshine.

lunch3

Now that I focus on my sacred charge of ballons, I see that they are held togeher with a dirt rooten stick covered with cheap brown paper and masking tape. There is one sliht gash in the paper. The balloon seller pushes the stick to me. I accept the stick. It seems more warm than I expected. Hotter tha you might expect even than that held by a sweaty old man. I realise the stick the ballons shuffle to the roof. I gaze around the dark room. Two fat men in grey suits watch me. They are wearing shades, even in the gloom of the early afternoon in a central city pub. They say nothing, but seem to be drinking orange juice. The ballon seller reaches the toiler door. He looks around with a furtive look and goes into the gents. The fat men with shades look at him as he enters the toilet door.

I take another swig of beer. The ballons hover above me, becoming more active. A women and a man walk into the bar. The women is dressed in a smart grey skirt and white shirt. She is wearing cool black sun glasses even in the gloom of the pub. The man stares intently at his mobile phone. His sun glasss are perched on hus hair. Strange crowd I think. The new woman who has come in goesto the bar. The man with the phone gracefully walks to the toilet. The balloons jostel as he approaches, so much so gthat I decide to hold the stick that holds them. As the man in the suit is about enter the door to the toilet he suddenly looks to his woman friend at the bar. She nods. He enters the door.

lunch4

I take another swig of beer. The ballons hover above me, becoming more active. A women and a man walk into the bar. The women is dressed in a smart grey skirt and white shirt. She is wearing cool black sun glasses even in the gloom of the pub. The man stares intently at his mobile phone. His sun glasss are perched on hus hair. Strange crowd I think. The new woman who has come in goes to the bar. The man with the phone gracefully walks to the toilet. The balloons jostel as he approaches, so much so that I decide to hold the stick that holds them. As the man in the suit enters the door to the toilet he suddenly looks to his woman friend at the bar. She nods. He enters the door.

lunch3

Now that I focus on my sacred charge of ballons, I see that they are held togeher with a dirt rooten stick covered with cheap brown paper and masking tape. There is one sliht gash in the paper. The balloon seller pushes the stick to me. I accept the stick. It seems more warm than I expected. Hotter tha you might expect even than that held by a sweaty old man. I realise the stick the ballons shuffle to the roof. I gaze around the dark room. Two fat men in grey suits watch me. They are wearing shades, even in the gloom of the early afternoon in a central city pub. They say nothing, but seem to be drinking orange juice. The ballon seller reaches the toiler door. He looks around with a furtive look and goes into the gents. The fat men with shades look at him as he enters the toilet door.

lunch2

I stare at my beer. It stares back at me. Other men in the pub gloomly drink their beer and wait for friends or something. The balloon seller just sits and his ballons fill the space with their cheap inflated happiness. Old men talk to older monestoursly fat women that are their wifes. Outside the sun shines brightly on the gay shoppers.

In the dark pub I feel nothing. Just a Saturday. A small amount of work in the morning, now some quality relaxation time , then later perhaps a bus home and a book to be finished. The balloon seller streches his boney hand to his pint. He swigs a gulp of beer. The single red balloon in his collection bobles at the roof, either in disappoval or from the draft as a grey speckled man enters the door of the pub.

I drink to be alone sometimes. I don't like being distrurbed. The grotty ballon seller puts down the beer glass. He looks at me and says “I need to take a leak. Can you look after the ballons?”.
“Oh, yeah”, I say and he slowly picks himself up from the chair. He looks around the room in a furtive scared ways and starts to move towards the toilet. The balons boble on at the rooff. Not much chance of them being stolen, unless a troupe of six year olds wonder in here.

lunch

I see the grotty ballon seller drinking his larger surrounded by the meanance of brightly coloured ballons. It is Saturday lunchtime and as is my way I take solice in a pint of bear in the Liffey. The balloon seller has dirty raggeed grey hair that needs to be scratched. He is old, yet to know that he is broken. The balloons are tied to a chair and they bobble close to the ceiling, gently floating in the rowdy
Saturday Liverpool afternoon.