Apologies. Last month got dark. To cheer up and change the pace, I thought I would describe a usual day running Buber in peak season. Most days we have a lot of fun on the last planet before the Scar.
I start at sunrise. The farmers click and rumble outside my window, never stopping. I scan my computer to check they are not upside down in a field somewhere, then head outside to pick some breakfast off the nearby fruit trees. The odd parnsiphead might be nibbling on our trap plants. Our farmers deal with most of them, but if they are busy I’ll scrape up the bones and gristle before the guests arrive.
The bar opens at midday. Like you saw last month, a good chunk of the day consists of cleaning up grot from the night before. We might get three people in before the evening, or we might get fifty. On quiet days I work on the souvenir collection, complete repairs, or sit outside and drink the sunshine.
Traders and salesman pop over sometimes. They know I am worth a pitch. We’ve bought whiskies blended in two different galaxies, and stouts brewed a million miles away. There are planets out there that are perfect for barley, grapes and sugar cane.
Evenings ruin the tranquillity without fail. At our peak sweaty punters queue out the door for cold beer and long drinks. Even on a quiet night I don’t get to bed until the Scar mixes with the darkness.
We get patrons so drunk we have to drag them out the doors.Once a gang of twenty parnsipheads ignored the fields of vegetation, and banged on all the walls with their rotting hands. I swept blood soaked glass off the floor until sunrise, and our bleach supplies ran dry. They had to pick a day without Butter Mice.
Grandmother described us as curators rather than pilgrims. I have taken less than eight full days off in the last year. But this precious rock remains stable in the chaos. Come visit. You will never be wanting for a drink.
