the final straw

I saw the Old Boss for quick drinks tonight and I was surprised to find Och Aye McKay among the small gathering. I have not seen him since his comb-over days and I even missed the infamous orange occasion. He may look different but he’s still exactly the same. Anyway, the Old Boss is fine. No missus, as she is unable to travel now due to the developing foetus. He’s staying at a hotel on the South Bank and was horrified when on feeling a little peckish, saw that a cheese and ham croissant was £18 from the room service menu. He really does live in a different world now. It wasn’t until I got out of the pub that I realised I had not smoked a twig, a pen, a cocktail shaker or a straw while supping my vodka. And on leaving the pub I complained that I stunk of smoke. I say.