No Plan is Perfect

The man on the other side of the bar looked at me strangely. It was 11 am on a Monday morning. He was my first customer that day, and it was my first week as a bartender.

“Morning,” I said brightly, “What can I get you?”

He continued to look at me. After what seemed like an eternity, he took out a packet of cigarettes from his top pocket. In one fluid motion, he extracted a single cigarette and balanced it end up, on the bar counter. It fell over and rolled along the bar, stopping against a bottle of Sarson’s malt vinegar. Both of us watched the cigarette, then looked at each other and then back to the cigarette again. The man let out an audible sign. After a few seconds, he nodded me farewell and walked out.

That was the first time I met Simon. He was a bit of a fan favourite. A local farmer with some 200 acres, mainly agriculture with a bit of livestock. Farmer Simon was an eccentric, popular character, born, raised and residing in the same post code as his parents and grandparents. I told a fellow bartender about my strange encounter with Simon earlier in the day. He nodded and told me Simon’s story, whilst we restocked the kegs in the keg room.

Farmer Simon was partial to a local ale, and a nip of whiskey, and it was a well-known fact that he enjoyed his libations more than the average man. Determined to keep on the right side of his vice, Farmer Simon had a single rule he followed. Before ordering a drink, he would balance a cigarette on its end. If it remained upright, he would drink on. If it toppled over, he cut himself off. The idea being that if he couldn’t balance a cigarette, he should probably go home.

‘So, this morning, he would have gone home, even though he didn’t have a single drink?” I asked?

“Would he hell,” came the reply. “He would have wandered down to the Maltsters Arms and tried again there. Plenty of pubs round here. Plenty of times to get that cigarette to balance.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Yeah, no plan is perfect, boyo. Pass me those keys, let’s get out of here.”