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Yesterday Martin got a letter in the post.
It had told him, in slightly clipped tones, that he'd finally passed the test and got his CPL.
Finally.
After all that time and money. So he's happy, ecstatic even. And he'd called his Mum to tell her and she'd been pleased for him, just like she's always pleased for him, but in that distracted way she usually is. And, well, telling Mum and Simon and Caitie just isn't enough somehow.
So he's gone to the pub. To celebrate. Mostly.
He's drains the last of his second pint of cider and heads for the gents. It's not a pub he's familiar with, and the bathroom is like any other pub toilet at 9.30 on a Thursday evening. Not as bad as it would be on a Friday, but not somewhere you hang around.
He doesn't really notice the change in venue when he plonks back down onto a bar stool, but the lack of bar staff is irritating. He props his head up in his hands, stares into the middle distance and silently wishes that he had enough money for a vat of cider big enough to swim in.
[OOC: Martin is currently hovering somewhere between resentful anger and melancholy, so odds are split whether he's more likely to punch someone in the face or bust into tears. It's a fairly safe bet however that both will occur at some point, though probably after more drink.]
It had told him, in slightly clipped tones, that he'd finally passed the test and got his CPL.
Finally.
After all that time and money. So he's happy, ecstatic even. And he'd called his Mum to tell her and she'd been pleased for him, just like she's always pleased for him, but in that distracted way she usually is. And, well, telling Mum and Simon and Caitie just isn't enough somehow.
So he's gone to the pub. To celebrate. Mostly.
He's drains the last of his second pint of cider and heads for the gents. It's not a pub he's familiar with, and the bathroom is like any other pub toilet at 9.30 on a Thursday evening. Not as bad as it would be on a Friday, but not somewhere you hang around.
He doesn't really notice the change in venue when he plonks back down onto a bar stool, but the lack of bar staff is irritating. He props his head up in his hands, stares into the middle distance and silently wishes that he had enough money for a vat of cider big enough to swim in.
[OOC: Martin is currently hovering somewhere between resentful anger and melancholy, so odds are split whether he's more likely to punch someone in the face or bust into tears. It's a fairly safe bet however that both will occur at some point, though probably after more drink.]
