Scene of the crime

I keep going back there, despite its bad associations - the pub from where I made the call that culminated in my coming out to my wife. Tonight's visit there wasn't entirely accidental, though, because we had a particularly acrimonious conversation earlier in the day, probably the least civilised exchange that has taken place in the whole benighted almost four month process, leaving me with a distinct feeling of needing a drink. When the opening gambit of the conversation isn't 'How are you?', or even something anodyne like 'What's the weather like?', but 'When do you get paid?', the only way is down, frankly. I have no intention of shirking my responsibilities to my family, but I'm not a bloody walking cashpoint, either.
My second consecutive day in London wasn't entirely blighted by the ill-feeling, though. I might, in response to something I saw on a poster advertising a new film, have come across an idea for a new story, and one which, if I can build on the plot framework I concocted in my head, would be in a much-needed new genre - most of my stories, I have to admit, are different aspects of much the same theme. I could well undertake a 'writing day' tomorrow, to see if I can get into it.
And not only that, I saw the future! Well, maybe. I was meandering through inner suburban North West London as the schools were finishing for the day, when the bus I was on passed a gaggle of homegoing pupils, amongst whom were a pair of boys, almost certainly brothers, by their resemblance to each other, both of whom had beautiful hair, especially the younger. But with them was a forty-ish man, presumably their father. And he was bald! Poor little guys. Behold the future - of your hair, at least!

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B