I love the smell of pubs.
Not the fancy concrete and stainless steel places but the old public bar with beer-sodden carpet, cracked-vinyl barstools and faint odour of disinfectant.
When I get a whiff of Old Pub, I want to cancel all plans and plant myself on one of its wobbly barstools with a cold glass of beer slowly soaking through the steve’s-electrical-supplies coaster.
And with a packet of chips – ripped open, centre-stage on the brown laminate table, its wrapping now a share-platter.
And, it wouldn’t be complete without a mate to lift one’s glass to and toast “Cheers!”
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