THE cinema-sized screen (said to be the largest in town) loomed over the whole pub last Wednesday night.

Life-size footballers played out the drama while an excitable audience watched the action unfold. I was looking at other people's faces.

I was working on a theory where I work out which people had work the next day and which (like me) didnt.

Those that had to go into the workplace, I reasoned, would be nursing their pints, or even drinking halves.

The most extreme, cradling Coca Colas.

Of course, the drinks these people gulped was only a slight indication of their fate the next day. They could all have been off work but abstained from alcohol for personal reasons. They may have been ill, or driving. Or plain skint.

The Long Suffering Marjorie offered that they may not actually like to drink alcohol. As if.

Another factor worth noting is that the pub had an awful lot of university students in it. These were quickly identified (rolled-up cigarettes, sharing one pint between two) and eliminated from the study.

Students did not have work the next day. Or the day after that. The real giveaway was the faces. The pain etched on those that had to take it easy was glaringly obvious. As was the delight of those who could sink a few because they didn't have to get up in the morning.

I pencilled in a few who, to me at least, were certain workers. For reasons quite obvious, I didn't approach them directly for proof. Sidling up to strange men in pubs and asking them if they have to get up tomorrow is never advisable.

Instead, I listened in to what they were saying. Of the six I had down as certainties, I heard two saying how glad they were they didn't have work in the morning. Three of them didn't mention work at all. The other was foreign. Dutch I think. The LSM was not convinced but I am more than pleased with my little experiment. It was one born out of a natural instinct. Here was I, a fully paid-up torch-bearer for British industry, sitting in a pub on a Wednesday night and actually enjoying myself.

Venturing out of the house, let alone into a pub, on a work night is almost unheard of. Given the early start one's job demands, it is more than recommended to be tucked up well before the bell signals last orders, as I usually am.

But this week -- these past two weeks actually -- I have indulging. I have been on my hols.

Most people go away in their summer holidays but circumstances and finances have just not allowed us to flee abroad for a welcome break.

Moving to a new town and exploring what it has to offer has been in itself something of a holiday. Just not a very adventurous one.

No matter. Just being away from work is reward enough for anyone, although today (Friday) is the last day.

No more will I be able to visit the pub on a Wednesday night (unless, of course, I cradle a solitary pint).

And no more will I be able to stay up watching so-bad-they're-good American sitcoms.

The worst thing, however, is no more gloating. To stir from the bed, glance at your watch through sleepy eyes and think: "I'd just be going for my dinner now" is almost too good to be true, especially when you picture your colleagues slogging it out. That's over now.

It's not that I don't like work but being away from the office does have enviable qualities.

That's why being off is such a joy. That's why millions of us rest our hopes on the remote chance a glorified bingo machine will one day spew out our six numbers and allow us all to sit in a pub on a Wednesday night.

And that's there is an air of despair hanging over heads like mine as they return to work from a break.

Bring on the next one!