And in a single bound, Jack was free.

Je adorer le weekend. At the weekend, we slough off our worries and get on down with the brew that is true.
Climate change and the smoking ban have transformed the town pub and its environs. There are aluminium tables and parasols, it’s great! A poor man’s Boulevard St Germaine - rive gauche in the rough. And the warmer it gets, the less clothes we all wear. It’s very liberating. Europe calls us “the shirtless ones”.
Stuffy uptight continentals.
Drinking beer in direct sunlight is hazardous but it feels so good. As the day wears on we may have double egg and chips and last weekend there was the evocative scent of Ambre Solaire just like the Costa Brava. Yeah! Classic. We are really motoring.
I know it may be gilding the lily, but I wonder if they couldn’t move the big screen to the window and put a speaker outside so we could hear the commentary. It’s just a thought. Maybe send someone out now and then to clear the tables and take an order.
I know I know, I want jam on it, me.