'Rina
The Fly
As requested.
Disclaimer: None of this is real, all fictitious, made up on the spot, apart from the van driver. Don't know the band, not making a penny from this.
23 years later
Somewhere in South London, there is a pub where patrons have known each other for years. The older drinkers remember the days when the upstairs rooms held folk club evenings. They have aged to their positions as set places within the establishment, Griz at the far end of the bar, Laurie at the corner of the long table, J inevitably behind the DJ booth and the postmen who only ever come in for a liquid lunch. In amongst the regular names and faces, the younger drinkers quickly form part of the family of the pub, and problems, stories and events are all shared with mirth and old ale at £2 a pint. Some of the younger drinkers are the second or third generation to take their refreshment within these walls, and by this token are even more involved than some of the folks who drink there more often.
This is a pub of character. Every regular and irregular here has a tale to tell. Some hilarious, some bitter, some too personal to be told. Aside from the drunken orations of a certain van driver, famed for his tall tales, the best story teller in these walls sits behind the pillar occasionally reading a very pretentious newspaper, occasionally talking with friends. Although stories are her life, her life has already been a hundred good stories. She’s not here right now, you’d be informed, were you to ask. “We’ve not seen Red since she came back from her holiday. Have you tried the coffee shop up the street?”
If we were searching for Red, that would be the next obvious step, but for now our storyteller remains untold, and the tale will unfold of its own accord within these four walls if we just wait a while. Before our eyes, in fact, a man in his forties walks into the pub. A new face to these parts, it would seem for there isn’t the smallest trace of recognition upon the faces in the room. In a voice that belies years of singing too loud, staying up late, laughing too hard and smoking too many, he asks the girl at the bar if she knows of a red-headed girl who sings old songs, and reads complicated books. “She’s sort of, quirky, probly lives nearby, always drinks Guinness” he continues. Upon closer inspection of the regulars, however, the lack of recognition is too studied, and the barmaid is of no assistance in maintaining this cover “Are you asking about her? Does she know you’re asking cos she’ll go pop when she finds out, I mean seriously, Pop all over the place, I mean, if you’re trying to stay incognito, looking for her is so not the way to go. No, she’s not been around for weeks, she was going to Dublin or something, not seen her since she got back…” And predictably, as Bono leaves the pub to walk up the street, the looks become enquiries, confirmations and conversations.
Further up the same South London street is a bookshop, not part of a chain, but again a rare bastion against the encroachment of the hundreds of brand names in the town. Back, behind the travel section, under a large poster from a cover of “The Lord of The Rings” there is a small counter where coffee and cakes are served and a selection of mis-matched chairs and tables from which they are consumed. Curled up on the sofa, nose in a copy of “The London review of books” is an auburn-haired young lady, of little more than 22 years old. She pushes her hair behind her ears and takes a sip of coffee, glad to be home, glad to be back where she blends in, and where everyone assumes they know how she feels, and by the same stroke, forgets to ask anymore. Back in a place where it doesn’t matter who she can no-longer be and no one sees fit to…
Before her sentence completes itself, the bell on the door rings as it is pushed open, and for the last time in her life, Red is going to assume she knows what is going to happen next.
Disclaimer: None of this is real, all fictitious, made up on the spot, apart from the van driver. Don't know the band, not making a penny from this.
23 years later
Somewhere in South London, there is a pub where patrons have known each other for years. The older drinkers remember the days when the upstairs rooms held folk club evenings. They have aged to their positions as set places within the establishment, Griz at the far end of the bar, Laurie at the corner of the long table, J inevitably behind the DJ booth and the postmen who only ever come in for a liquid lunch. In amongst the regular names and faces, the younger drinkers quickly form part of the family of the pub, and problems, stories and events are all shared with mirth and old ale at £2 a pint. Some of the younger drinkers are the second or third generation to take their refreshment within these walls, and by this token are even more involved than some of the folks who drink there more often.
This is a pub of character. Every regular and irregular here has a tale to tell. Some hilarious, some bitter, some too personal to be told. Aside from the drunken orations of a certain van driver, famed for his tall tales, the best story teller in these walls sits behind the pillar occasionally reading a very pretentious newspaper, occasionally talking with friends. Although stories are her life, her life has already been a hundred good stories. She’s not here right now, you’d be informed, were you to ask. “We’ve not seen Red since she came back from her holiday. Have you tried the coffee shop up the street?”
If we were searching for Red, that would be the next obvious step, but for now our storyteller remains untold, and the tale will unfold of its own accord within these four walls if we just wait a while. Before our eyes, in fact, a man in his forties walks into the pub. A new face to these parts, it would seem for there isn’t the smallest trace of recognition upon the faces in the room. In a voice that belies years of singing too loud, staying up late, laughing too hard and smoking too many, he asks the girl at the bar if she knows of a red-headed girl who sings old songs, and reads complicated books. “She’s sort of, quirky, probly lives nearby, always drinks Guinness” he continues. Upon closer inspection of the regulars, however, the lack of recognition is too studied, and the barmaid is of no assistance in maintaining this cover “Are you asking about her? Does she know you’re asking cos she’ll go pop when she finds out, I mean seriously, Pop all over the place, I mean, if you’re trying to stay incognito, looking for her is so not the way to go. No, she’s not been around for weeks, she was going to Dublin or something, not seen her since she got back…” And predictably, as Bono leaves the pub to walk up the street, the looks become enquiries, confirmations and conversations.
Further up the same South London street is a bookshop, not part of a chain, but again a rare bastion against the encroachment of the hundreds of brand names in the town. Back, behind the travel section, under a large poster from a cover of “The Lord of The Rings” there is a small counter where coffee and cakes are served and a selection of mis-matched chairs and tables from which they are consumed. Curled up on the sofa, nose in a copy of “The London review of books” is an auburn-haired young lady, of little more than 22 years old. She pushes her hair behind her ears and takes a sip of coffee, glad to be home, glad to be back where she blends in, and where everyone assumes they know how she feels, and by the same stroke, forgets to ask anymore. Back in a place where it doesn’t matter who she can no-longer be and no one sees fit to…
Before her sentence completes itself, the bell on the door rings as it is pushed open, and for the last time in her life, Red is going to assume she knows what is going to happen next.
I agree w/everyone else. This is interesting...and I can so picture the Great B...
