The general manager of this Wetherspoons has been promoted
beyond his skillset. The boy he hated at primary school, is a man now,
arguing about licensing. He is buying a second pint of cider,
while he sits for lunch with his son who is seven. A toddler is crushing
peas into the pattern of the carpet. Mayonnaise packets are massing
at the condiment station and boxes of frozen British Beef Lasagna
are waiting in the walk-in. Weekends are consistently repeating
and I am lost on the way to the ladies, where someone has thrown up
Marketing’s new beverage in an impossible shade of pink. A fruit
machine rattles with sounds unlikely to be victory. Business meeting
and hangover breakfast. The mums arrive after swimming, chlorine hair,
catch-up, J20s and paninis. These days are on draught, new locations coming.
This poem was first published in bath magg