7.2: The scullery
At the back of the quiet country pub, the Swan Hotel, there is a scullery in which lives The Minkey.
Well, he does not strictly live there, as he sleeps out on the Heath, in a hovel he had to fashion for himself to survive, when he lost his job at the pub because of the Covid pandemic.
It is a dismal little windowless room, lit by a single naked 40w bulb, too hot in summer and too cold in winter. The sink, standing at which he spends his days, is set at slightly the wrong height for comfort. The hot tap often runs cold and then bursts into life delivering a sudden explosion of scalding water.
The Minkey has been washing up here for years, largely ignored by the Barman and his small regular clientele. He used to dream of being promoted from the washing up to serving pints in the cosy bar just through the door but it seems that the Barman has simply never considered this, perhaps because he retired from the Colonial Service to run a pub for the company. The Barman’s pension is enough for the Swan Hotel not to need to make a profit and it is thus simply a labour of love. So the Barman, alone, pulls the pints in the comfort of the bar and the Minkey washes up alone in the scullery.
Strangely, however, although there are not very many customers, thus not very many pints poured, there always seem to be very many glasses to be washed. This is perhaps because the Barman likes to assess each glass for sparkle and rejects as many as three in four.
Only one thing makes the Minkey’s life bearable: an ancient ghetto blaster and a tiny collection of cassette tapes, of which Nick Drake’s three albums comprise the majority. In fact: the totality.
