erithacus' saga: hunter-gatherer turns wage earner

A diet of woodlice and nettles soon began to lose its appeal. I needed to improve my station and to do so would require involvement in economics and relationships with my own species. In other words I would have to find some way of getting money.

So I strolled into the JobCentre (formerly the employment exchange – “I’ll swap you encyclopaedia sales for plastic dinosaur quality control”) and walked out as barman in the Regency Bar of the Wayfarer’s Hotel. The hotel was 1960s brick affair that bore no resemblance to Ye Olde travellers’ inn. Its bar was as cold and uninviting on the inside as the hotel’s external architecture suggested. It had a stained lilac, malt-vinegar effervescent, semi-shag pile airport-lounge carpet and was frequented by very few guests or drinkers. Easy-listening music accompanied the lounge’s inhabitants as they aged. There were only two regulars, an old man and his wife, or an old woman and her husband. I assumed they were woman and husband because of their lack of complicity. Their daily routine involved entering the bar at around half past six, after they had finished their dinner. The man would come to the bar while his wife took her seat in the corner. He asked for a lemonade for her and a small beer for himself. He quickly drained the beer, gasped, took a shifty glance at his wife to make sure she wasn’t looking, and then told me to serve him another, putting his finger to his lips to assure himself of my silent complicity at his daredevil act in defiance of female oppression. Despite the semblance of futility in this non-interactive routine, it would prove a useful stepping stone to more complex future relationships.