Very early in life, I perfected one skill: I can carry four pints at once. I put them in a straightforward quadrant; nothing dumb like balancing one on top. I have an incredible hand span, but also very pouchy, sausage-like fingers, qualities not much prized by the checklist of female allure, but extremely useful for carrying glasses. I had a brilliant apprenticeship, pulling pints at festivals around people who were too far gone to notice. When youthful hubris led me to try five, I learned my limits in a safe place, with plastic cups, surrounded by grass.
People always worry, even if they know me well, that this is just more of my bullshit. They try to help me out by each ordering the same drink. But they needn’t, because I can carry four of any pint – the technique isn’t shape-related. (The exception that proves the rule is Camden Town Brewery’s weirdly squat pint glass.) It’s a kind of genius. Swap one out with a glass of wine and I’m still your person.
