We’ve fallen completely in love with one of the pubs nearby. Real ale, wonderful food – and two of the cutest and friendliest barmaids you could imagine.

They’re usually fairly relaxed – smart jeans, black T-shirts, chatting merrily away to all and sundry, But the other night? Smart dressed, serious looks, clearly stressed.

Over to our left was a large table set for dinner for twelve, above which floated “Happy 60th Birthday” balloons. And the barmaids? One walked over and scanned the table, frowning – adjusting the placement of a spoon here, lining up a tablemat ever-so-slightly-more-neatly there, checking chairs were perfectly in line. A gap of a couple of minutes, and the other barmaid would be across, fussing over the layout. Another two minutes, and the first lass was back making yet more minute adjustments.

We realised the reason for their concern pretty much straight away. The guest in question was a local dignitary; it was a great honour for the pub to have been selected for his celebration. The landlord had made it very clear that the service for the group must be absolutely spot-on, and that any infractions would be punished after closing time with a sound strapping. Indeed, perhaps one of the girls, or both, had already had to hold out their hands that evening for a taste of the tawse, after the boss’s initial inspection had left him unimpressed…