Publick House in the Desert?

Can you imagine a Scottish pub placed in the desert where the temperature is a hundred degrees outside? Nor can I. The image of wool sweaters and kilts, darts, cool stout pumped out of a cold basement and pink ruddy faces on a gloomy wet day shrivels under the relentless hammer blast of the Central California sun.

So, out of sheer desperation - knowing that my return to Scotland is unlikely, I have entered this virtual pub - where I can go and write, imagining that it is raining outside and that I ought to be wearing a heavy wool sweater. After an hour or two of writing, a couple of cold pints and a Guinness beef pie, I will walk back through damp and windy cobblestoned streets to century degree weather, fajitas and Corona light.

I have named the pub after my patron saint: Augustine. Austin is the diminutive of Augustine. In fact, since our beloved saint's feast day is coming up in two days, we ought to honor him with a post and a pint then!