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

We lived in the countryside, so I had to

commute to nearby Leeds on weekday mornings, whilst at the weekends, I would spend my nights

earning much-needed beer money. The point is, when my late shift at the pub ended, I would 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 a 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 gentry alike

would always tip on their orders. Sometimes it was the take-your-own amount

of about 20 pence, but sometimes they would leave you with maybe four or five pounds of change,

especially when they would have a few too many, and were feeling overly generous. My shifts usually

ended about 11.30 p.m. once last orders had been called, and we had cleaned

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

...