Tuesday, 26 November 2013
The bar has as much class as you can get with mock-Tudor. It’s supposed to be 'oldey-worldey' but only manages 'slightley-tackey'. The pseudo-oak bench seats are upholstered in velvet with what looks like a subtle pattern but is an accumulation of stains so numerous the original colour no longer shows.
The carpet’s the same but with more adhesive qualities. Fortunately the drinks are cheap and there’s usually a good covers band.
Despite them being at the pub early, the only table available is a beige, plastic-topped, metal monstrosity; the result of the landlord’s decision to “jazz the place up a bit”. It’s from the same school of design as the fake open fires. The matching plastic chairs have cracks vicious enough to leave your arse looking like a stripper's after a sales convention gig.
“Do I look okay?” Sam checks her dress with her hands.
“Nothing. Must be my imagination.”
Jennie spins her around so she can three-sixty the outfit. “It’s fine.”
‘Then why are people staring at me? Damn, I knew I should have worn the red dress.”
“Relax you look great.”
“God, you wouldn’t believe the shit Crispy tried on today,” says Sam, after they’ve settled themselves as comfortably as they’re ever going to.
Jennie’s so transfixed by the bright green drink that’s put down on their table she doesn’t respond.
“It’s a Grasshopper,” says Tania, owner of the drink and a friend to both of them.
“Gizza sip.” Sam grabs the glass and helps herself to a large gulp.
“Well?” say both the others.
“Not bad. Why’s the glass so clean?” Sam compares it to the state of her own.
“It was fresh out of the box; I think it’s their first cocktail. Ever,” says Tania.
Standing, Sam waves at the barman, points at the glass and indicates three with her fingers. He grimaces before heading out back; grabbing a ladder on his way.