Here’s the thing I realized while clutching my £10 pint like a holy relic. It’s still worth it. Not because the beer is magical. Not because the bar is fancy. But because London is mad, loud, and expensive, and you’re part of it.
You can’t take your money with you. You can barely take two pints with you. But you can take the laughter, the stories, and the absolute, ridiculous audacity of paying a tenner for a beer and loving it anyway.
So raise your glass. Raise your bank statement. And remember: You didn’t buy a beer. You bought a moment. A moment that tastes like hops and mild panic. And it’s glorious. Cheers to that. And please, for the love of all that is holy, can I have a sip?
