Now I’m in the swing of things. Day three of Voice Week, and we are getting closer to the locals.
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“Albert!” I said. “You seen that young feller in the corner?” I nodded towards the two toffs at the back of the snug. “He’s lost his hand. Don’t seem too worried about it though.” Alby wasn’t that interested, he hardly glanced up from his ale.
“See what yer mean.” he said, “Looks quite happy about it.”
I said, “I reckon it’s affected his head. Must of happened in the war.”
“Shame. He’s only young, like Harry Brown from up the East End.”
“Harry hasn’t lost his hand?” Alby don’t always explain himself proper, specially after he’s had a few jars.
“No. T’was his leg.”
“No wonder he weren’t so happy, then”
“Suppose not,” he said. He peered in to his tankard, then the cheeky bugger said, “It’s your round.”
“I bought the last one.” I said.
“No you didn’t.”
“Who did then?”
He jerked his thumb towards his shoulder, and the huge farm hand behind him, “Must have been Big Jim,” he smiled.