I Hate Bars
While I write this, I’m on holiday. Specifically, I’m in the hotel room I am sharing with my brother, in Austria, on a skiing holiday, and it is about 2100 (local time).
Why, I hear you ask, am I sitting writing a blog post while on holiday? Well, it goes like this:
Our ski instructor also works in a bar, and he invited us to come see him this evening. Now, I hate bars, but it didn’t sound like too bad an idea for a little while, and I can’t really not be social when on holiday with my family. However, we’d forgotten that there is no smoking ban in Austria. (For the benefit of any non-British readers, it is illegal to smoke in an enclosed public space or workplace in the UK, and banned in many of the open ones). And this place is hazy with smoke. Not a major issue, but still rather unpleasant.
We stay for a drink, and while our instructor is friendly (he didn’t bat an eye when I declined the alcoholic drinks, which is instantly puts someone in my good books, especially as I didn’t have to explain), I’m getting bored and fed up. As I said, I dislike these places with a passion, and sitting around doing not a lot is hardly the most attractive idea. It’s pretty obvious that I’m fed up (it tends to be…) and I start getting my mum asking me what’s up. That’s great, in theory, but over too many bad experiences in bars I’ve had people ask this, and now it just gets me more irritated. Then you get the annoying ‘poor you’ in that tone that could be genuine, or could be downright patronising.
And then, just when all the drinks are finished, and it looks like we might be taking our leave, my brother suggests that he might stay for another, as long as he’s not alone, and Mum and Dad agree to stay, and look to me. And I’ve had enough. So I head back to the hotel, trudging across the snow, to sit in front of my laptop and rant on my blog.
And boy, do I expect to hear about it tomorrow…