In Search Of A Big Woman

Track of the day - Poison Ivy - The Coasters.

I don't feel well. As usual it's all self inflicted.
In 1938 or thereabouts some sadistic douche bag who had the bright idea of surrounding our back garden with a privet hedge, three privet hedges to be exact, and ever since then someone has had to trim them at least twice a year.
Yesterday was start the trim day. After hacking at 30 yards of the brute I was totally knackered. The remaining 40 yards will have to wait until I've recovered.
Having to work perched on top of a step ladder is bad enough but bending over to pick up all the severed bits that land in the flowerbed finishes me off completely.
End result is that my back and shoulders ache fit to bust, which is why I limped along to the Hole in the Ground bar in search of a big woman. It's well known round here that a big woman can provide the only lasting cure for a sore back.
Needless to say, I shouldn't have bothered.

The bar was empty except for a drunk pilot and a retired policeman. I moved the ashtray so that it was under the sign that read "Thank You For Not Smoking" and lit up. A track by All American Reject blasted out of the speaker above my head and the beer was cloudy.
"You want me to pull another pint, see if it's any better?"
"Yes."
The replacement looked better and tasted ok. I hoped that it wouldn't ruin the whole of the next day.

The barmaid came out from behind the bar and stood next to a long haired guy who usually served the beer.
She giggled a lot and squeaked when she spoke. The giggling was easier on the ear. She lit a cigarette and pulled on a Bob Dylan cap. Long haired guy was rolling his own and talking too much. She giggled and said nothing.
"Hee, hee, hee.
Huh, uh, huh.
Khee, khee, khee."
It started to get annoying.
A guy came in off the street and started to force feed coins into a slot machine hoping it would throw up a jackpot. It didn't. It just swallowed all his money and kept it down.
The barman left his roll-up on the bar and wandered off to stack chairs.
"Bang, bang, bang." The empty bar got the message. The pilot poured another glass of wine from the bottle in front of him, the retired policeman ambled off to find another bar and the barmaid stopped giggling long enough to reach over the bar and pull herself another drink.
The chair stacker came back to finish his roll-up. The barmaid started giggling again and then disappeared behind the bar to ratchet up the volume on the speakers another notch.
"Another one? Foster's?" she squeaked at me from under the peak of her Bob Dylan cap.
"Yes please."
She wandered off to the Carling pull, her mind obviously fixed on far more important stuff.
"I know my metal bands," said the guy who had been stacking chairs.
"Tee hee, khee, khaa," giggled Bob Dylan cap as she tried to work out what to do with the rejected pint of Carling. She turned the peak of her cap so that it pointed out over her left ear.
"Garçon! I'll have a," shouted chairstacker.
"Hee hee. I don't speak French," giggled Bob Dylan cap and walked off.
"Oi! Un pint de canal. Non. A double vodka."
She ramped up the volume of the Death Metal track that was already threatening to blow the cones out of the speaker.
The word purgatory sprang to mind.
The pilot slurped some more of his white wine then staggered off to the toilet. The Who track Blue Eyes started up on the jukebox but it wasn't by the Who and was followed by a yodeling rap track. Chair stacker asked Bob Dylan cap if she wanted a cigarette. She giggled.
A poster on the wall read. "Why not try our fun quiz?
Every Sunday."
I think not. I'd rather cut privet hedges.