I wasn’t expecting that. I just don’t know what to say … what to think … what to do. I mean, how the hell has this happened? I’m going to need time … time to figure all this out. We’ve left the King’s Arms. We shoved those tequilas where the sun don’t shine and split. Time for progress; momentum; the logical next step. So we’ve moved on to a bar. Not a pub or a club, but a bar. A bar: it comes somewhere between a pub and a club. But it isn’t a pub or a club, coz it’s a bar. It’s basically a step up from the pub on the going-out scale: the drinks are unjustifiably more expensive, the lighting is darker (with bursts of neon), and there is a mini dance floor of sorts toward the back there. The girls in these joints make considerably more effort: shorter skirts, tighter shorts, higher heels (I clock Scott rubbing his touchy-feelies as he checks out our new environment). And it’s more metropolitan than a pub, which is quaint: all moldering “ye olde” pretension and fix.
