There was a time when I never left a pub before last orders. Whether or not I was enjoying myself – and on reflection I often wasn’t – I’d be in there until the bitter end. I think this is because, having spent most of my teenage years desperately seeking pubs prepared to serve me, once I was in there, even after I’d turned 18, I was going to make the most of it.
A while ago, an old friend was back in the area. We met at our teenage haunt – the Station Inn, West Hagley, since you ask. It was great to see him. But come 9.30pm there was a general feeling it was time to call it a night, and off we went. And I realised I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stayed out late enough to hear last orders called.
