Exploring my world in words…

…whilst drinking.

It’s a crooked old stool with tartan cushion that you sit upon as you drink that beer in silence. The girl to your left has lost her bag, on the back of a receipt she scrawls her number and a description. You think about skimming the number, but don’t. You are better than that.

The bar is cool, despite being packed. The noise of punters chatting almost drowns out the surf rock that plays in the background. It’s three pounds change for the guy with the cardigan — sadly, all he got was two pints of beer. He looks puzzled by this, momentarily forgetting he lives in London.

Across from you, an older guy joins a group, a brown hat with a piece of leather braiding atop his head. Besides him, a girl fixes her hair, letting it hang loose, whilst a guy adjusts his jacket on the back of a chair.

You take another sip of your drink. By now, you’re forgetting about the expensive stuff, that craft beer stuff. You are now just on Sol, with the lime in — of course.

The bar is illuminated with a soft red glow from the lights above, the staff working their way around the crowd. With a slight wobble, the fans over head blow a cool breeze into your face. A man at the bar complains about supermarkets in the area, then seemingly changing pace, he brags about the massive discount he thinks he has scored. He hasn’t. You know it.

Looking up from your writing, you notice the labels on bottles behind the bar are, in fact, upside down.

Slowly, it passes two in the morning, and you wonder if you should head home. Punters around you start to stagger and fall backwards as the drink takes its toll.

Just another Thursday night in Dalston.