A festive tour of classic pubs
Up to London today. London looking beautiful in the crisp cold and low light. Met Jeanne, my French client for a cheeky in the Victorian splendour of The Salisbury. As we chatted, she sipped a half of Bombadier Bitter in an indesputably French way. From there I walked to Fleet Street to lurk in the pokey dark bar of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese to wait for Bob. It was full of people who had a Christmas lunch and carried on drinking. Including a couple, who sat next to me and were conducting an office affair. They'd not seen each other for a while. He asked, sheepishly, how she had been. She replied with a colourful description of how she had vomited the night before. His face was a picture, and I was trying not to snort with laughter into my stout.
Bob on good form, although by the time I met him I was already rather um, merry. After a steady warm up by the fire in the Cheese we sensibly repaired to a curry house for early vittles. Bob gave me a Tibetan singing bowl, and a copy of Little Dorrit. He demonstrated the singing bowl in the restaurant, slightly alarming the waiters. Then we walked up past St Paul's to The City Pipe. This was another dark den formerly populated by city gents. However this is no longer the original pub and, although still subterranean, it is bland. From here we lurched down to The Blackfriars. And finally to an old haunt the dive bar of the The Cole Hole on the Strand.
Exceedingly well oiled, I lurched onto the Tube making a fond farewell to Bob, before catching the slow train. Home half asleep at 1.00am.
Up to London today. London looking beautiful in the crisp cold and low light. Met Jeanne, my French client for a cheeky in the Victorian splendour of The Salisbury. As we chatted, she sipped a half of Bombadier Bitter in an indesputably French way. From there I walked to Fleet Street to lurk in the pokey dark bar of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese to wait for Bob. It was full of people who had a Christmas lunch and carried on drinking. Including a couple, who sat next to me and were conducting an office affair. They'd not seen each other for a while. He asked, sheepishly, how she had been. She replied with a colourful description of how she had vomited the night before. His face was a picture, and I was trying not to snort with laughter into my stout.
Bob on good form, although by the time I met him I was already rather um, merry. After a steady warm up by the fire in the Cheese we sensibly repaired to a curry house for early vittles. Bob gave me a Tibetan singing bowl, and a copy of Little Dorrit. He demonstrated the singing bowl in the restaurant, slightly alarming the waiters. Then we walked up past St Paul's to The City Pipe. This was another dark den formerly populated by city gents. However this is no longer the original pub and, although still subterranean, it is bland. From here we lurched down to The Blackfriars. And finally to an old haunt the dive bar of the The Cole Hole on the Strand.
Exceedingly well oiled, I lurched onto the Tube making a fond farewell to Bob, before catching the slow train. Home half asleep at 1.00am.
Below a snap in Trafalgar Square, a glance down Whitehall, and the interior of The Salisbury.
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