I’ll be down the pub tonight, like every year, catching up, swapping stories, necking beer,
my hand resting on an
empty stool

“I should really delete his number, he’s got no signal up there,” I’ll joke. Like I always do

A slap on the back

Sambuca shots will struggle down our throats as eight-year-old traditions
force their way
into our evening

Confused rounds of dirty pints and luminous cocktails, interspersed with his favourite Simpsons quotes

A slap on the back

“Prince Charming!” will be yelled as the young DJ Googles Adam Ant, Birthday Pimms all round

Wobbly steps and curry sauce, dreaming of his wife and where he’d live and where’d he work and if he would be here with us right now

A slap on the back

Sleepy goodbyes and unforced cries before we trudge off, ready to tuck our memories under the duvet

The only light, an iPhone light: “See you next August. Love you mate. x”

© Carl Burkitt 2012