was over. I could have hung around a bit, taken more time to answer the questions of the half-dozen or so students who always lingered after lectures as if they didn’t have a million and one more interesting things to do, or even retreated to my tutorial room to catch up on a bit of marking. But I was restless, anxious to arrive at the rendezvous and stake out my territory before Benny arrived.
The Hair of the Dog was a corner pub on a busy road, its frontage decorated with hanging baskets as big as baby’s cribs. The expanse of wall beneath the windows was faced up with shiny ceramic tiles, which looked as though the building was protected by a chitinous, cockroach-brown exoskeleton. The old-fashioned, swinging pub sign depicted a wolfish, grinning dog wearing a bowler hat and holding a tankard of frothing ale in its strangely human-like paw. The pub was the cornerstone of a row of businesses which included a noodle bar, a dry cleaner’s and a hypnotherapy centre.
Stepping inside the pub, I was immediately assailed by that old-school and wholly comforting odour of stale cigar smoke (ingrained in the walls and still redolent), ancient cologne and the hopsy, earthy fumes of beer and whisky. The décor was old-school too – battered red leather and chipped mahogany tables. The central bar was shaped like a squared-off tug boat, which had clearly been designed in order to serve all four corners of the vast room which it bisected. The carpet was the colour of raw beef and the ceiling was still stained an acrid yellow-brown from the days when the place had been a smoker’s paradise.
At this time of day there were only a couple of dozen people occupying the myriad tables, which made the place look empty. I crossed to the bar, aware of the click of pool balls from an adjoining room and the burbles and bleeps, like robotic indigestion, from the unattended fruit machine. As a young man I’d spent many a drunken night in pubs like this, but now I felt incongruous, a middle-class pretender trying to fit in with the workers. Stupid, I know. This was London, after all. The great melting pot. My eyes scanned the bottles arranged on the shelf behind a young guy in a green polo shirt who was waiting patiently to serve me. I pondered a moment, then ordered a large glass of Chilean Merlot.
I’ve always loved that moment just before you start drinking when the barman sets your first full glass down in front of you. Today, though, my stomach was so jittery with nerves that even the gentle chink of the glass on the bar and the cherry red shimmer of light on the deep velvety surface of the wine failed to calm me. As soon as I’d paid him I all but snatched at the glass and gulped down my first mouthful. It was smooth, but it burned a little when it reached the bile in my stomach. I took another gulp, then another, and within a minute the glass was half-empty. I stopped myself from taking a fourth gulp and placed my hands on the bar. It wouldn’t do to be half-cut when Benny appeared. I needed to keep a clear head.
I was over half an hour early. I took my drink to a nearby table and passed the time wishing he’d arrive, in order to get this thing over with. I wished I’d bought a newspaper too, so that I could appear to be sitting casually, leafing through it, when he walked in. I did consider popping out and getting one, but then I got a mental image of me leaving the pub just as he was coming in, and him maybe thinking I was chickening out – so I stayed put.
The door opened a few times over the next half-hour, first to admit a gaggle of students – none of them mine, thank God – then a trio of brassy blondes, dolled up for a night out, one of whom gave me the eye, and then a couple of blokes who looked like they’d been working on a building site. Eventually, feeling like Johnny No-Mates, I took out my mobile and busied myself with it. I’d had a message from Candice asking if I’d had any further thoughts about our
The Hair of the Dog was a corner pub on a busy road, its frontage decorated with hanging baskets as big as baby’s cribs. The expanse of wall beneath the windows was faced up with shiny ceramic tiles, which looked as though the building was protected by a chitinous, cockroach-brown exoskeleton. The old-fashioned, swinging pub sign depicted a wolfish, grinning dog wearing a bowler hat and holding a tankard of frothing ale in its strangely human-like paw. The pub was the cornerstone of a row of businesses which included a noodle bar, a dry cleaner’s and a hypnotherapy centre.
Stepping inside the pub, I was immediately assailed by that old-school and wholly comforting odour of stale cigar smoke (ingrained in the walls and still redolent), ancient cologne and the hopsy, earthy fumes of beer and whisky. The décor was old-school too – battered red leather and chipped mahogany tables. The central bar was shaped like a squared-off tug boat, which had clearly been designed in order to serve all four corners of the vast room which it bisected. The carpet was the colour of raw beef and the ceiling was still stained an acrid yellow-brown from the days when the place had been a smoker’s paradise.
At this time of day there were only a couple of dozen people occupying the myriad tables, which made the place look empty. I crossed to the bar, aware of the click of pool balls from an adjoining room and the burbles and bleeps, like robotic indigestion, from the unattended fruit machine. As a young man I’d spent many a drunken night in pubs like this, but now I felt incongruous, a middle-class pretender trying to fit in with the workers. Stupid, I know. This was London, after all. The great melting pot. My eyes scanned the bottles arranged on the shelf behind a young guy in a green polo shirt who was waiting patiently to serve me. I pondered a moment, then ordered a large glass of Chilean Merlot.
I’ve always loved that moment just before you start drinking when the barman sets your first full glass down in front of you. Today, though, my stomach was so jittery with nerves that even the gentle chink of the glass on the bar and the cherry red shimmer of light on the deep velvety surface of the wine failed to calm me. As soon as I’d paid him I all but snatched at the glass and gulped down my first mouthful. It was smooth, but it burned a little when it reached the bile in my stomach. I took another gulp, then another, and within a minute the glass was half-empty. I stopped myself from taking a fourth gulp and placed my hands on the bar. It wouldn’t do to be half-cut when Benny appeared. I needed to keep a clear head.
I was over half an hour early. I took my drink to a nearby table and passed the time wishing he’d arrive, in order to get this thing over with. I wished I’d bought a newspaper too, so that I could appear to be sitting casually, leafing through it, when he walked in. I did consider popping out and getting one, but then I got a mental image of me leaving the pub just as he was coming in, and him maybe thinking I was chickening out – so I stayed put.
The door opened a few times over the next half-hour, first to admit a gaggle of students – none of them mine, thank God – then a trio of brassy blondes, dolled up for a night out, one of whom gave me the eye, and then a couple of blokes who looked like they’d been working on a building site. Eventually, feeling like Johnny No-Mates, I took out my mobile and busied myself with it. I’d had a message from Candice asking if I’d had any further thoughts about our
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