Back when I was in university, I used to work nights at a pub just a few miles from my

parents house.

We lived out in the countryside so I had to commute to nearby leads on weekday mornings

whilst at the weekends I'd spend my nights earning much needed beer money.

One is, when my late shift at the pub ended, I'd have to walk about two and a half miles

along narrow, poorly lit country lanes in order to get home.

Yeah, we had a taxi service in a village nearby, but on the weekend it's pretty much fully

booked at all times.

That and I didn't fancy blowing my nightly wages on a taxi at the end of every shift.

I was that frugal student.

One of the great things about working pubs in the countryside is that the tips are phenomenal.

The sense of community and old-fashioned values meant that farmhands and landed gentria

alike would always tip on their orders.

Sometimes it was the take your own amount of about twenty pants, but sometimes they'd

leave you with maybe four or five pounds of change, especially when they've had a few

too many and we're feeling overly generous.

Anyways, my shifts usually ended about 11.30pm.

Once last orders had been called and we'd clean down the bars.

All the staff would then usually hang around for a drink until about midnight before going

our separate ways.

Now this one Saturday in particular had been insanely busy.

The weather had been spectacular, and there had been some kind of garden festival in the

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