That's definitely getting colder, I tell the Half Awake Barman. That definitely is, he replies. And they reckon that's gunna git even colder, I add. They do, agrees the HAB. Someone was saying that the other night.
That was me, I volunteer. I said it was going to be the coldest winter in 100 years. So it was, says the HAB. I stare into my pint, pleased that staff behind the bar of the Village Pub clearly value my penetrating insights into the issues of the day.
As I head homewards, frenzied sawing noises come from Hawkwind Sid's garden. He is demolishing his shed, ready to burn it.