“It’s not Bells,” said the old punter.
The early evening of the day’s first drink still
welcomed natural light in the pub windows to glow
the liquid gold in the glass. But it was not exactly the
right colour. A well seasoned nose tried the finer
points of the vapours. Whisky was even jingled up to
a weather-beaten ear that could hear no bells.
“I always drink Bells,” said the old punter, nodding
knowingly to his drinking pal and being sure to be
loud enough to catch the full attention of the new
“Sorry Sir – but how would I know? You just asked
for two whiskies, not what special kind,” said the
The old punter clearly looked like he hoped it might
be changed to Bells.
“Sorry Sir – I can’t change it – you’ve already drunk
some of it.”
At that point the old punter want off for a pee.
This young barman moved the glass a bit along the
bar top. The drinking partner understood, grinned
and readily nodded his approval.
A gleam of hope soon lifted the old punter when he
came back to see the glass was changed.
“Changed it for you Sir,” said the barman.
The old punter so clearly could enjoy it so much
“I know the difference,” he said, perhaps more loudly
than he should have.
Bells was published in
Journal of Microliterature
09 March 2014.