I don't like children in pubs.
Don't get me wrong - I like children. I was once one myself and, since then, I have spawned four of our own. But in pubs they never fail to disappoint me. But to be fair it isn't really the children that disappoint me - it's their parents.
Yesterday we had a funeral party meet here. Fifty or so mourners who have seen Nan off.
They had warned me they were coming. They were told we could not do the catering so, if they would like to supply their own buffet, they could do so. They also told me there would be children. I advised them that that was ok, provided they were not at the bar and not running around.
At twelve o'clock the buffet was delivered. The usual assortment of homemade buffet items. Cold cocktail sausages. Tuna vol-au-vents. Hairy chicken drum legs. The cheese and pineapple hedgehog. These sat in the warm for four hours until the funeral party returned.
Then there were the children. About ten of them. They started quietly enough with cokes each but then, as the parents got to reminiscing with their family and friends, the children started.
It was slow at first. The pacifying crisps strewn on the floor. Drinks spilt. The parents didn't notice. Then hide and seek and shrill shrieks. The parents didn't notice. Then the chasing round the bar area loudly. The parents didn't notice. Then the young lads, with greasy fingers, desperately trying to climb up the front of the bar. Then the parents noticed and simply said "Stop it, or that man will tell you off". Me. Why me? It isn't my child running amok. They were over the building like a rash. Some young teenager had been delegated the task of managing the horde but clearly wasn't up to the task. Battle-hardened troops from Iraq would struggle with these delinquents.
II retire to my office and put my hands over my ears. It is good business but it has a price.