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Weekly Contest #97
I’m staring out of the window of the bar late at night - just before closing time. I’m looking out of the public bar window at the mountain that’s moving towards me like Birnam Wood in the play which name cannot be spoken aloud and I know it’s the drink that talking when in walks my old buddy, Jack O’Leary, tight as a cork in an old bottle of Merlot. We’re in the Angel Hotel, only it ain’t no hotel, just a pub tucked into the side of the hill, and I haven’t seen Jack for a year because I’ve been sailing around the post British Empire world....
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