The Widow's Tale by Mick Jackson

shot. Perhaps she thought I might have a future standing behind the counter of a local charity shop – you know, as a way of getting out of the house and actually meeting people . With the greatest respect, I would rather chew off my own arm. Being surrounded by all that crochet and bric-a-brac. Not to mention the rest of the planet’s waifs and strays.
    Apropos of nothing, there’s a woman in a certain charity bookshop in north London who is prone to barking. She has what my mother used to refer to as a bit of a habit. The first time I heard it I was picking through the History section. I spun around. Her colleagues were all carrying on as if nothing had happened. But I quickly worked out which one was at it. It wasn’t difficult. She had another little bark as she headed up the stairs.
    She seems perfectly fine, except for the barking. Quite a well-to-do woman in her late sixties, I’d say. I’ve been backtwo or three times when she’s been on duty. The first bark, you suddenly remember. Then you sort of get used to it.
    But now I feel guilty for having mocked her. And the good little angel on my left shoulder observes that whilst she might be prone to the occasional woof, on the inside she’s probably the epitome of mental equilibrium. Whereas I rarely bark at all. But on the inside it’s non-stop barking. In fact, I’m fairly howling at the moon.
    *
    It was only this morning that it occurred to me that, being up here where no one knows me from Adam, I could be just as adventurous with my past as my future. I could conjure up for myself a whole new identity.
    I am, in fact, a famous photographer. Or a famous writer. But then people will only ask if they’re likely to have come across any of my work. Unfortunately, I shall explain, most of my stuff’s incredibly highbrow. Poems mainly. And all published abroad. I translate them myself. Except for the haikus, which I write in Japanese.
    Of course, I needn’t necessarily be famous. I could just be … interesting.
    Actually, speaking of voluntary work, I quite fancy having a go at rebuilding some of those drystone walls. I must have seen someone at it on the telly, and was particularly impressed by the way they trimmed each piece of stone into the appropriate shape. The same way I once saw a bricklayer split a brick in half with a single clip from his trowel. I’d like to be able to do that. I’d like that very much. When I met a stranger and they askedwhat I did, I’d like to be able to say, I’m a bricklayer. A layer of bricks.
    Last night, as I entered the Lord Nelson I noticed how the barman had already picked a glass out and was reaching up towards the gin’s optic before I’d even opened my mouth.
    Actually, I said.
    He stopped.
    I cast my eyes up and down the counter. These beers, I said. Are any of them female-friendly?
    He drew an inch or so from one pump into a shot glass and offered it to me. It was actually quite tasty. Not half as bitter as one might think.
    I supposed aloud that women tended not to drink pints.
    He said that I was mistaken. And that these days many a young lady enjoyed a pint. Especially the lagers. Besides, he reassured me, a couple of pints now and again is very nice. Adding how good it is, every once in a while, to feel properly filled-up.
    I held his gaze with steely determination. I must not, I told myself, glance down at this man’s midriff. I have sneaked a peek before and since. Suffice to say that it comes as no surprise that this is a man who advocates the pleasures of being filled right up. This fellow looks like he’s been filled up with a hose.
    So I sat at my usual table, with my crossword and a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry before me. And when I lifted it I used both hands to make sure I did not spill a drop. It’s rather lovely. And not too fizzy. I doubt that I could drink two orthree pints every night. I couldn’t be doing with all