Boston Arms and an old school Egging

A quiet pint on a Saturday afternoon, last rays of Autumn sun. Sounds nice. But we're sat on a picnic table chained to a wall on a 5 way junction where buses, wagons and irritating charvas whiz past on their mechanical wasps with manky grey jogging pants flapping furiously. The junction's busy, really busy.

Then, I feel something fly past my ear and crack then splat against the ceramic tiles of the pub.



An egg.
What?
I've been egged?

I've not been egged since I was at primary school.

Just one of the many perils of being a smoker in modern London where these ancient beautiful Victorian boozers never had gardens as part of the building plans and now we are forced to sit where we can on whatever street corner the councils will allow. To be egged on a sunny afternoon.

http://www.bostonarms.co.uk/