Temp

10 minutes late, is he trying to come the cunt? Relax man, you're hardly the most outstanding proponent of punctuality – you've executed some of the most appalling breaches of social etiquette with regard to arriving on time. Aye, I suppose that's accurate, just linger here at the bar a while longer and sip your pint. Let the bored bar staff study you and surmise your story, no, don't let that irk you. Move away from the hatch a wee bit. They're overstaffed and moving in and out of there quickly to attend to the most trivial of clean-ups. Pint glasses must be washed and refilled, the cycle perpetuated. It helps us think, after all. Ah, the clarity of a few pints!

Quarter past, where is the cunt! This really is unacceptable, one is tempted to finish one's pint and absent oneself from the premises. A warm cheerio. More than halfway through the bloody pint now. He'll be here any moment. Forget about the fact that one's presence standing at the bar somehow encumbers the bar staff and makes them feel exhausted and disdainful. I'm sure it doesn't anyway. Weird cunts that work in here by the way. A passive aggressive hostility is inferred. He'll be here, he'll be here. Where the hell is he then? A plausible explanation for being held up I'm sure, come on you miserable bastard don't jump to conclusions, he's coming he's coming. He's not coming. God it's hot in here. Why do they have the fire and the ceiling fan on. One removes one's jacket and hangs it on the underside of the overhanging bartop. A most efficient and excellent way to quickly achieve optimal comfort.

All available space feels occupied, it's okay, one enjoys one's vantage at the bar, oversees the patrons lost in vast conversations. 15 minutes now that's okay, no need to foster the countenance of a doss bastard at this juncture.