Beware of the bar stool Witch

The old Witch sat where she always sat. At the bar with her pint of Stella, trying to verbally barge into any conversation she could. I sat with my back to her, the though this could be another one of my deranged family members flitted across my mind. I didn't want to imagine it for it gave me a dizzy spell and the need for fresh air. Mr Cashier man sat opposite me while I concentrated in half conversation with him and half reading today's broadsheet. At one point he said I was being patronising when I related an article about the painter Caravaggio. It just must be the way I have with words, some people think it, whilst I was being genuine. In the end I come to the conclusion I don't give a damn how they take me, but I do admire honesty, so replied in an honest way how my comments were not to be taken as patronising. Meanwhile a cackle from the Old Witch cut through my body like the scythe of Thanatos. I starred at my companion and then quietly made a suggestion to him.

“you see the Old Witch at the bar?”
“yes” came his reply as his eyes glanced in her direction but in a way so as not to draw attention.
“Why don’t you go and ask her out? I know you get on OK with her, I’ve seen you chat to her before. And do it about this time of day, when I come in the pub.”

There then was a moment. Possibly two or three moments as I watched his body language. A slight head turn to the left and the right, he bought his hand up to his face and held it for a second as though in thought. Took his hand away. Readied himself as though about to make a brave statement. Glanced left then right and then eventually addressed me. Saying:

“you want me to ask her out? About this time of the evening, when you come in?”
“yes” and I nodded my head, we were talking quietly in secret squirrel fashion.
“How much are you willing to pay me?” Now was a moment of my own time to think about it. The thought of an evening without the Witch was so exciting, one of peace to drink my Guinness and chat to less mentally disturbed individuals. I replied:
“I’ll go to a tenner.” Mr Cashier looked at me in contemplation saying.
“I would, but I don’t think the offer would be accepted.” He was right. The Old Witch would probably make a voodoo doll in his image and stick it a few times. I wouldn’t mind but poor Mr Cashier had only just come back to work after 8 months off with a broken leg and still he wasn’t right. Groaning about how his good leg now hurt.

I finished my pint and left. It seems freedom from the insane is a luxury to have. It even stops my enjoyment of a pint. Well as the saying goes, ‘there’s more out than in’.