He waits for the pub to open. Just like decades of working men before him. Seeking respite from exertion, from worry, from responsibility. He has a thirst on him. It’s early, but the toil of the morning is already weighing heavily. He aches. He wonders how generations previous managed to face this toil, week-in, week-out?
He hears a key turning in the lock.
They’ll surely offer a flat white he wonders, but what’s their wi-fi like?