Try a few shots and see if you don’t suddenly sound like you’re fluent in Gaelic. “Nice Wellies.” “Thanks.” The barman slams two shot glasses on the bar, fills them with whisky, and returns to his regular customers clustered at the other end of the pub. “Did you see that?” I whisper to Fanny. “Did you see the way he smirked when he said he liked my Wellies? What was that about?” “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” She lifts the shot glass to her lips and tips the contents into her mouth. “We’ve got whisky and a bar full of men in uniform. Who cares about a smirking old bartender?” “Touché.” Several of the men at the end of the bar are dressed in green flight suits and throwing darts at a bull’s-eye shaped board. One of them, a tall broad-shouldered blonde dressed in civvies, takes aim and sends a dart whizzing through the air.
