I've been told off for swearing. Not profound and unpleasant swearing. Just mild a tutting kind of cussing.
We've been busy you see.
Wetherspoon's has closed for refurbishment. The pub is, generally, trading healthily and we seem to be selling lots of beer.
Excellent, you might say.
But I have become aware of the curse of arthritis in my knee and the stairs to the cellar are awkward and treacherous. Every time Jo shouts "Chris, the bitter needs changing" I have gone and done it but not without mutter.
Usually it is nothing worse than "Oh, bloody hell!". So how can I complain when we are busy?
I am the first to argue a good licensee "keeps good beer, keeps the place clean and is there". But it doesn't mean I have to be nice. Or pleasant. Or polite.
I've no wish to be labelled a complainer. I think of myself as having a cheery disposition. But, when another cask runs out and I have to confront those awkward stairs "Oh, bloody hell" seems appropriate.
But Jo is right to challenge me. Maybe it is something about being in my 40s and fitting the model of 'grumpy-old-man' syndrome. My children are increasingly characterising me as "miserable". Am I grumpy?
I'd like to think it is because I drive high standards. That my expectations are higher than most. That I am a driven fellow who wishes to provide the highest of service at every level.
But maybe it is because I'm a grumpy old git.
Those stairs are never going to get easier.
This year I am fifty and not looking forward to it.