The place is just the right kind of dim… shouting distance of gloomy, but to a connoisseur it’s much more nuanced. Green shades on the lamps, hamming up the Irish angle, and the regulation scratched wooden bar with half-inch of varnish. Scuffing over to said bar I’m inclined to think that this could work out better than expected.
Spatsman is in situ and I’m in a good enough mood to consider talking to him. It will have to be mulled over however… the appearance of a good mood is not something to be trifled with, especially coming out of such previously inhospitable territory. With this in mind I lollygag at the opposite corner with one shoulder to the back of him and take an inventory; goodness of mood is augmented when it turns out that, in furtherance of hammy angling, the place stocks the dozen paddiest beers the country has to offer.
It’s not long before Spats has sidled over to intrude on my rumination. He comes on like an old friend and starts in the middle of a conversation about absurdist theatre. It seems I look the type.
“Will we sit down,” he says, “and have an old cupán tae?”
I gesture at the bar.
“Oh,” he says with a wink, “never too early to get the few pints in you.” He nods, pleased with his drinker’s wisdom.
The good mood holds up as a buffer and I find I don’t mind letting him drone. I tell him I’m here with “the bould George Fournier,” continental gadabout and giant of letters, and this is far enough from his area of expertise that he spends the guts of two hours changing the subject. At no point does he notice how many rounds he’s paying for. Gentlemen, I have still got it.
The thing I like most there is just the tag. “Still having it” raised a chortle.
The good Doctor still has it. He can still raise a chortle.