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ok so i havent written anything for a while so im a bit rusty. started writing a short story and wondering where to take it. before anyone points it out, i know this isnt brilliant, i know im not a literary genius and i know that it features inane subject matter. any comments would be appreciated.

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The bartender recited my change with military precision. Deploying the copper soldiers into my outstretched, eager palm, his voice flickered with faux-enthusiasm - but his acne populated face dripped with disinterest as he muttered his scripted pleasantry. I didn't really mind, as I had long before shifted my focus onto his forearm tattoo, with its sharp points wrapping and warping to escape the inky prison : a permanent, fleshy, name badge reading 'Brad'.

Why had I asked for lager again? I don't even hold much of a candle for the fizzy variety, never mind the tasteless vase of warm glow presented here. Perhaps my inexplicable request had stemmed from my inability to cope with the pressure of a quiet bar and an impatient barman - in those situations I am pre-programmed to stump for this generic offering, and of course 'Brad' was only too happy to oblige. Now, underwhelmed and having tardily processed the fact that I quite fancy a mojito, I looked on as he hastily married his dry towel to the moist marble surface, and did for a moment consider requesting an alternative...but eventually surrendered the notion: it wasn't Brad's fault, and after all, what power did he have if the bubbles refused to cooperate? He wasn't even a supervisor. Instead, I secured his sympathetic attention and bitterly began to swallow down my dead purchase in the most mournful manner I could reasonably portray considering my lack of acting ability.

As I theatrically choked down a no-doubt unhealthy swill of my flat treat I was quickly distracted by an angst-sodden group of teens entering stage left . The ringleader was roughly ten stone of problem child; a walking black mood housed under a Burberry roof, apparently thriving in this clammy climate which was now being increasingly poisoned by his tinny European trance ringtones. Striding quickly toward the bar, large feet crashing forth as though surfing on steel-toe capped Rockport waves, he boomed a hasty request for three pints of lager and I did wonder if the pressure had affected him too. Ordinarily, I would have offered him a review of my negative experience, but as he cast me a murderous look I thought better of it. "What you smirking at?", he grunted - and as the threat of a happy slapping shocked me out of my grumpy trance and back to an uneasy reality I concluded that I must've failed to hide my amusement at their antics (but as mentioned previously, acting isn't my strongpoint).

Shrugging and sinking into the familiar depths of my golden enemy I counted my blessings as the inquisitor turned away to review the status of his transaction. Ironically, my misplaced choice - our only common ground - had probably saved me. Imagine if I'd bought the mojito.