I love those cool urban nights when everything seems to happen the way you want it too. Last night I went out and sampled some excellent beer: Whitstable’s ‘Pearl Of Kent’. I kid you not, this stuff tastes like toffee and has a smooth edge to it not unlike top quality whisky. I had to stop myself from over-indulging! I also had an unmentionably awful ale, which tasted like fermented fox piss with added grapefruit juice: not everything is wonderful.
I met a poet called Simon and a man who claims to make a living by playing slot machines. He never gets my name right, but he seems friendly… ‘Be careful of such people’, says my heart. Actually I think he’s pretty honest: time will tell.
As we head for recession it seems that some of my smaller city haunts have discovered live music and drama. At least one pub I know has opened a small theatre on their top floor.
Heading home I dropped into a jazz bar and heard a classically trained guitarist flick through some gypsy orientated guitar tunes and songs. And all this in the Midlands; for a few hours it seemed more like Greenwich Village in the 60s, or perhaps some obscure Parisian suburb. Hopelessly romantic, I know, but worth exploring.