Jesus! Listen to this dreariness. The chatter of the boys on the gatt, the Eva Cassidy-esque sounds over the speakers, the bar sounds: glasses; spoons; a sweeper-scooper; a coffee spoon stirring; and the constant hiss of silenced television, the different channels flickering. Outside the shadows of people fall in, cars fizz past on damp tarmac; the shadows grow from wood red to purple in here, out there there’s only grey. It falls from the heavens too. A pub, a pub like this, any pub, is not a place to be alone, not unless you’re armed with a pen, a chronic drinking habit, insanity or an abundance of optimism. I have 3 of those 4.