The pub has always been my place. I’ve been going since well before I should have, it’s my spiritual home. I still remember turning 18 and marching straight up to the bar:

“I can work here now! I’ve just turned 18!”

The reply came with a laugh: “What do you mean you’ve been drinking here for years?”

Working there felt like a rite of passage. Hard graft, long nights, coming home smelling of fags and stale beer, fingers pruned from the washing up. Sneaking frazzles between customers. Shouting “Who’s next?” over the noise. Taking a full £3.50 when someone said “and one for you” because no one had told me you were only meant to take a quid. It was chaos, but it was home.

Now, the pub is still that place, my commune, my constant. The faint trace of cigarette smoke in the air always takes me straight back to being 18 behind the bar, sticky floors underfoot, heart full. It’s where I go to see a friendly face, to play dominoes, to talk nonsense at book club, to celebrate birthdays, or pick apart the latest film over a pint. It’s where the football’s on, the babies are passed around, and the kids grow up on J2Os and crisps before being ushered out by 9. I bloody love the pub.