03/11/2026
Nobody sees the work that keeps a pub open in winter.
They see the fire lit and the pint poured. They don't see you in the cellar at half seven in the morning, cleaning the lines before the dray's even left the depot.
They don't see the boiler you've had a man out to three times this month. Or the car park you gritted at six. Or the ice you scraped off the b**r garden so the smokers don't go flying.

They don't see the Sunday night you spent redoing the rota because two of your team are off and the Christmas party for forty is still booked.
They don't see you chasing deposits, or turning the heating down in the room nobody's sitting in, or doing the sums at the end of a Tuesday that took less than it cost to open.
They don't see the bills landing on the mat. Or the pile of letters on your desk you can't bring yourself to open yet, because you already know what's inside.
And they never see you deciding, every single week, to keep going anyway.
That's the job. Most of it happens when nobody's looking.
What's the bit of the job nobody ever sees you do?
