It has always been the 'little corner pub', whether I lived quite literally around the corner, or so very many blocks away. The corner booth (the regulars know it as the one with the bar window) has been home to nights out with friends, brunches with strangers, and those seats at the bar in front of the manx-tap? They were home to a steady string of ice-cold, air-conditioned nights that may or may not have qualified as dates with Brett some five years ago. There we would sit, with pints of apricot wheat and copies of exclaim in hand, listening to the latest kelp singer-songwriter-type perform while we dodged the 40+ degree humidex outside and plotted mini trips to Montreal to see our favourite bands-of-the-moment.
There is a lot about our impending move that is pretty-darn-exciting, but one of the things that is so very hard is leaving behind twenty years (yes...I have been living here that long) of favourite places.
The Manx is one of them.