People watching is possibly my favourite sport: stopping to take note of our surroundings, becoming more aware of who and what is going on around us. Can you blame me? The awkwardness of a first date, the tenderness of a lover’s embrace, the urgency of a train station reunion – a day spent observing is a highlight’s reel of all your favourite Netflix shows in one. But it is also a reminder of the beauty of the everyday, our fascination in other people’s lives - it is procrastination in its purest form.

As a bartender, this becomes a large part of your working day. On quiet days, when there are few customers but plenty of glasses to be polished, you become more observant of your surroundings. It becomes increasingly difficult to not tune in to customers’ conversations as you deliver their food, to not assume the relationship between individuals within the various cliques. Then there is always the game of guessing who is going to pick up the bill – and if they will leave a tip. The work itself is monotonous (pouring pints, making cocktails, serving food) and yet, no day is the same. With a constantly changing clientele base, bar work is varied enough to keep me on my toes. Over the course of the working week, all sorts of characters step through those doors and, admittedly, I become too invested in the lives of these strangers.

🍺 The Regulars: Usually locals who have been frequenting the bar long before I worked there. Painstakingly punctual, they arrive at the same time every day to drink the same drink that they have been ordering for years. They know the staff by name and they always make sure to ask you how you are. It is a strange limbo between professionalism and forged friendship but you do begin to miss your regular customers, even start to worry, when they do not arrive on time for their usual pint.

🥂 Last Night’s Straggling Survivors: Often some of the first arrivals on a Saturday or Sunday morning, punters from the night before will crawl in, accompanied by a friend they convinced to help them retrace their steps. Their bedraggled looks and sheepish manner set them apart from the rest of the crowd, as they approach the bar to ask if anything has been handed in. As staff sympathetically check lost property for lost phones, wallets, laptops and coats, they wait: hungover but hopeful. Reuniting an owner with their misplaced property is a truly heart-warming experience; however, on most occasions, their items are nowhere to be found. They shuffle out, disheartened, in pursuit of the next bar on their list. Amongst the odd requests for mislaid miscellany (my favourites including a pair of rugby boots, a bottle of gin and what the customer described as “a very ugly, cat-shaped purse”), are the items that nobody bothers coming to collect. A Barber jacket, a solitary black glove, several umbrellas. I recently rescued a wonderful scarf from a three-month stint in lost property and can assure you that I, as it’s proud new owner, vow neverto leave it behind.

🍸The First Daters: Pubs and bars offer food, drinks and the illusion of being private enough to maintain an intimate conversation in a crowded room of strangers. It is a safe and convenient location for first dates, with the option of alcohol to ease the process. There is a tell-tale tentativeness to first dates, making them easy to differentiate from the marriages and companionships. One always arrives early, consistently checking their phone for updates from the other; the greeting is awkward, rehearsed. It does not require an expert to determine whether a date is going well. Flowing drinks – good. Flowing conversation – even better. Once a woman came to the bar and proclaimed “God, he’s boring”, which was an unfortunate situation for both parties.

🍹The Rowdy Crowd Pleaser: A ring-leader of rebellion, they are always the first person to sneak up to the bar and get a round of shots for the table. They egg everyone else on, encouraging the descent into a drunken stupor. Boisterous, bubbly personalities, their voices soar above the general volume of the bar as they order drinks that even the bartenders have never heard of. A Craig David, in case you were wondering, is a tequila shot and a pineapple juice chaser. A Cement Mixer is a shot of Bailey’s poured into a Guinness. I have only ever had one request for Jager with pickle brine, which I politely refused.

🥃 The Lonely Landlord: One Thursday eve, a man in his mid-50s sat alone, apparently watching the football match that was showing that evening. As I walked past on my way to deliver some drinks to a nearby table, he stopped me to ask how much a drink might cost. Shocked at my response (a double gin and tonic is £12), he laughed in disbelief. This sneaky sleuth then went on to explain that he was a local landlord, spying on his indebted tenants. “They have no idea who I am, but they owe me £1000,” he said, watching them squander their unpaid rent on lager. Simultaneously amazed at his ingenuity and feeling slightly sorry for his unsuspecting tenants, I spent the rest of my shift trying to figure out which table they were.

Of course, people-watching is secondary to the real work that I must do. Bartending can be exhausting and repetitive; one of the most sociable jobs with the least sociable hours. I love it though – I love my colleagues and I love my customers. I love the confidence I have built through having to interact with strangers all day. There is a magical quality to inventing complex backstories based on minor interactions, knowing that I may never see them again. Being more observant means that you notice more when people forget to say “please” and “thank you”, or to acknowledge you as a human being rather than a genetically engineered, beer-pouring bio-robot. I do, however, wish they were more polite. After all, manners cost nothing.

I’m your bartender, and this is what I see

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