Warm beer

The grey-haired man in black accepted the glass of beer from the bartender, but then he tasted it and placed it back on the table.

"This beer is too warm," he said.

It was a Sunday, just after noon, and the Dog and Duck pub in Soho had just opened. The landlady was cleaning up the place after a raucous Saturday night. "It's not supposed to be cold," she said, taking him for a tourist unaccustomed to British pubs.

"I know that," said the man, irritated. "But this one is too warm."

"It's the same as all the others. We keep them at 14 C." She was having none of it.

"it's too warm," he said again. He set the glass on the table, turned and walked out of the pub, down the narrow street and away.

The landlady smirked and muttered at his back.

The other customers shrugged, watched the black-clad figure diminish down the street, and sipped at their own glasses of ale or cider. "Pushy bastard," said someone.

After a moment of silence - "D'you know who that was?" asked the man sweeping up in the corner. Everyone looked at him. "That was Terry Jones."

We all looked down the street again, but the former Monty Python comic was no longer in sight. But the glass of beer remained.