As I stumble out of bed and into a set of well-worn work clothes, I can't help thinking I should have avoided that final pint of Brakspear's Special Bitter . . . . I slink downstairs into the quiet of the pub's cellar. We step gingerly amongst the gleaming casks of ale, careful not to disturb their rest.
Someone pounds on the wooden doors that link our underground domain with the pavement above.
We unlock and open the doors. Dim morning light shows southwest London in all of its gray glory. Two veteran deliverymen mumble token greetings as they begin to drop cask after cask of fresh ale down onto a padded mat on the cellar floor. We are cellarmen . . . This introduction sketches a standard weekly delivery of cask-conditioned ale to the London pub where I studied the cellarman's art for several months in 1993.