Flux

each ordered a pint of good ale and picked up a menu before finding seats tucked away in a small snug. Iain salivated as he read the list of foods, trying to decide which to have. Liver and onions: mmmm, or maybe fish? The chicken pie looks good. The waitress came over and Iain ordered rib eye steak.
    They staggered from the pub three hours later, after the sun had set and the stars begun to shine, returning back to the field with full stomachs to carry on the session.
    Once again lying on his back, the stars swam as he looked up at the sky. The air had a chill, amplified by sunburnt skin. A shooting star burned up overhead; I wish, I wish that my head will get better and I can get back to normal life. He also wished that the moment would never end. Can you have two wishes? Will that cancel them out? The moon was rising in the Eastern sky, full and bloated like Iain’s belly. On this cloudless night, he could clearly make out the craters which made up the face of the man in the moon. Tonight it gave little comfort, appearing ominous and brooding, scowling down at the young man lying in the grass.
    The sky was already starting to brighten when they entered the shared dormitory and snores came from one of the beds, which were full of sleeping and weary travellers. Creeping in the dark so as not to disturb their co-habitants for the night, they tried to find their own beds. Iain stumbled, stubbed his toe and yelped; Dave snorted loudly, trying to supress a laugh. Someone in the room grumbled and rolled over, their disdain at being disturbed quite evident.

    Iain was the first to wake; opening his eyes to a full moon of pale, naked, hairy backside. Shutting them quickly again, he groaned and rolled over, pretending to be still asleep. The arse belonged to a co-habitant of the dormitory, who’d been sleeping the bunk above Iain. Once very sure that the man was dressed, Iain pretended to wake, stretching and yawning loudly.
    “Morning.” said the man.
    “Ugh, morning,” feigning sleepiness.
    The man started on a one-sided conversation which didn’t really interest Iain, the heavy night and early waking leaving him somewhat lacking in the banter department. The man, whose name Iain didn’t catch, was a cyclist and after travelling over a hundred miles the day before was about to embark on the return journey. He was now dressed in tight fitting Lycra which wasn’t a whole deal better than naked butt crack.
    Nutter. Although Iain couldn’t fail to be a little impressed at his cycling prowess.
    Gary snored loudly. Although out of sight elsewhere in the dorm, he knew it was Gary, being a sound he’d heard on many occasions. The air was thick with the aroma of farts; that was probably one of his friends too. The need to urinate forced Iain from his bed.
    The pungent atmosphere wasn’t helping Iain’s hangover and so instead of returning to his mattress, he pulled on his shoes and made his way to the front door of the hostel and into the main square.
    The cool morning air refreshed, but Iain had a raging thirst and an intense ache behind one eye, forcing him to squint against the still low morning sun. He made his way to the newsagents, the only shop open on a Sunday, before walking back to the opposite side of the square, slouching in a bench next to the medieval stocks.
    Iain sat watching the world go by, drinking Lucozade and smoking cigarettes while enjoying the early morning sun on his face; warm but not yet strong enough to burn. A sign on the thick stone wall of the town hall opposite announced an antiques fair happening later in the day. He thought it might be worth a look.

    Ace, he smiled as a troupe of Morris dancers arrived in the square just in front of him and started to unpack sticks and bells. The dancers taped off a large corner of the square before the majority of tourists, and their cars, arrived. He went to take a swig from his bottle; finding it empty, Iain wandered back over to the newsagents for a large bottle of water and a Mars bar before settling in for the show.
    The dancers came from all walks of life and ranged from an acne ridden teenager, to octogenarians with grey, bushy sideburns, so large as to look like squirrels stuck to the sides of their weathered, craggy faces. There was one thing that all the men had in common, apart from the white clothes with red ribbons, and that was that they each drank ale thirstily from large tankards; where they got them from at that hour on a Sunday