It's raining now, after an overcast day. I have walked to neighbouring Archway, which gets its name from the medieval gatehouse which used to perch on Highgate Hill. I scurry towards an Irish pub that's practically empty. Who starts drinking at 4:30pm on a weekday anyway?
A bellicose middle-aged man in a fedora is smoking in what I assume is the doorway.
"Is this the entrance to the pub?"
He brightens. "Yes." And lets me pass.
A scruffy patron is reading the racing section of the paper. He has total command of the only TV, switching it to the race of his choice and adjusting the volume when the commentary becomes too loud. How do the horses race in such weather? Some races don't even have a starting gate. The horses trot to the starting line, then at a signal, turn around and bolt.
It's a nice pub to escape the drizzle. Just before I leave the barmaid turns on the Christmas tree lights.
No comments:
Post a Comment