Perfection

I had something rare today.

Something that many people spend a lifetime seeking out but never finding.

That elusive beast.

The perfect pint of porter.

How's that for alliteration.

When I get the train home I always have a pint before hand. The train is always at 16.55 so the pint is always mid afternoon. Unfortunately this means that if I go into a quiet pub there's a good chance the porter will have been sitting in a line all night meaning it will have a bitter taste.

Not today though. Today I got 568 millimetres of absolute cream. Purists may moan that the head on the above pint is slightly larger than usual and yes, there's no denying it was but good jaysus it tasted divine. The kind of pint you'll remember when you're old and decrepit. The kind of pint you'll dream about. The kind of pint that tastes like another. Like a warm cuddle in a glass. It was just divine and vanished it 6 glorious mouthfuls.

The bag of tayto is your only man too. A combo that can't be beaten. In a perfect world the crisps would last as long as the pint does but they always vanish by the second mouthful. It can't be helped.

FFS I'm easily pleased.