Small Victories

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The river dashed through Cardiff like it was in a hurry to get out to the sea.  You couldn’t blame it. Cardiff was at its wintery worst. Moving in the opposite direction, the snow and sleet seemed to be in an equal hurry to get inland; blowing in on a spiteful wind. Heavy grey skies hung low over the castle and the stadium shortening the day further.  Thoughtless cars splashed pedestrians as they tried to battle their way home. It was a miserable, misty, manky day that froze your bones no matter what size coat you were wearing. Mitch marched towards town, trying to avoid puddles as he did. His coat was already drenched and his hood dripped cold, icy water onto his nose. For once in his life, he was pleased he was carrying a few extra pounds; were he any lighter, he might be whipped by the wind and whisked off towards the Brecon Beacons. A bus bustled by and Mitch just managed to avoid the wave of water its tires sent crashing onto the pavement.

The Rummer Tavern was just a hundred metres away but it felt like a hundred miles. The wind was right in his face, trying to push him back from where he’d come and trying to make him cry.

Each step felt like an achievement as he tunnelled his way through the gale.

Mitch shook the water off his hood as he entered the pub He looked around for Chris but he was nowhere to be seen so he headed to the bar and ordered a pint. He slipped his wet coat onto a hook and sat down. Despite the rain on the end of his nose, he was a happy man. He hadn’t won the lottery, or met the girl of his dreams. He hadn’t even completed his to-do list in work. But he’d managed to get to the pub with dry socks and that was enough to put a smile on anyone’s face.