quick drinks

The thing I'm going to miss when I'm not in London anymore is pub nights. There's no other place like the UK for going for drinks and then going home and the evening has barely started. It makes for a surreal experience in the middle of the week, as if reality were something of someone else's concern.

Never mind workdays starting at ten, the lab always takes off to the pub shortly after five. Today's a beautiful day, the sun is still high and shining strongly. I'm a bit late to leave the lab because I'm discussing a structure with a collaborator, but when I get to the Builder's Arms, the pub is still deserted. We're occupying the first-floor seating, enjoying ales and assorted soft drinks.

I grab an IPA for me and refills for the fastest drinkers and join the conversation. Over the next three hours, drinks will be replenished several times and food will arrive. The Builder's Arms is no gastro-pub but they cook up decent chow. I'm having a cassoulet that gets me into a decidedly French mood. My first ale is horrible, as ales are supposed to be, but even worse. The next drink is a Sierra Nevada, also called an ale but of industrial heritage and an altogether different beast.

When I walk home, not the first one out the door but leaving a good-sized group behind, the sun is getting ready to set. The light has red-shifted and every illuminated brick wall radiates love. It is barely nine o'clock, and I get home earlier than I have the two days before when I stayed working late. I pick up speed on the twenty-minute walk, hoping to sweat out the alcohol to make room for a few more hours of work at home. I've got a presentation to prepare and a structure to sort out.

It doesn't quite work out. A certain dizziness obscures my brain, and back home the sofa feels more appropriate than the desk chair. As the laptop works equally in either location, I just sink down and get on with it. The Beatles are on the stereo; the shops below are still busy with custom. The night hasn't started yet.