BELLS“It’s not Bells,” said the old punter.The early evening of the day’s first drink still welcomed natural light in the pub windows to glow the liquid gold in the glass. But it was not exactly the right colour. A well seasoned nose tried the finer points of the vapours. Whisky was even jingled up to a weather-beaten ear that could hear no bells.“I always drink Bells,” said the old punter, nodding knowingly to his drinking pal and being sure to be loud enough to catch the full attention of the new young barman.“Sorry Sir – but how would I know? You just asked for two whiskies, not what special kind,” said the barman.The old punter clearly looked like he hoped it might be changed to Bells.“Sorry Sir – I can’t change it – you’ve already drunk some of it.”At that point the old punter want off for a pee.This young barman moved the glass a bit along the bar top. The drinking partner understood, grinned and readily nodded his approval.A gleam of hope soon lifted the old punter when he came back to see the glass was changed.“Changed it for you Sir,” said the barman.The old punter could now enjoy it so much better.“I know the difference,” he said, perhaps more loudly than he might have wished.endBells was published in the Journal of Microliterature09 March 2014.