We try and have fun on Buber. This is a bar after all, and most of the time we do not sit around moaning about the state of the universe. This is a relaxation centre, not a soapbox. However, I am still undecided about our visiting performers.
A top week here on Buber. We have had less than eight clouds in the sky. All the doors and windows have remained open, and guests order spirits and mixers in highballs with lots of ice. The Butter Mice cocktail highlighted here a few months ago marks a lot of receipts.
Some big personalities visit the bar. People have had a long old time to sit in space, and gone through a lot of trials and tribulation. Many realize quite how small they are. Why they should let their true personas taste the world.
We had a crew of fishermen here this week. Not a regular sight, but they pop by from time to time. There are a few planets circling some local stars that are pretty much water all the way round, and all are abundant with fish.
Argh. A grim start to the day today. There were some dodgy ships that landed about five miles away, and didn’t stop for a drink. Some joker let a whole bunch of parnsipheads take a trip on his freighters.
I wasn’t going to do another interview this week, but the guy we had in this afternoon slugged the cheap bottled lager I’ve had in the back for ages, and asked if I’d make him a sandwich. Between bites he chatted and chatted and chatted.
I wish my Grandmothers had kept a better log of the wildlife on Buber. They were far too busy terraforming to worry about what insects were buzzing about. Since then her laissez-faire attitude to arrival checks means the natural world of our little planet must be a constant battle for survival.