A Well-pulled Pint of Guinness, a Glass of Tempranillo and a Lovely Welsh Rarebit
Today has been a good day. I am still sick – this morning at 7am I was even having problems sitting up in bed – but the pain of the last few days receded enough for me to be able to go into the publisher’s office to make some changes to a manuscript I have been paid to read.
Usually I am not a great fan of being the freelance leper in an editorial office. It is not the casual contempt from the permanent staff that is my main gripe; it is the level of noise. I find it hard to proofread, rewrite and create new material for another writer’s book as several unfeasibly loud and snobby women are discussing fashion and cosmetics. It is tough to be accurate or creative whilst a dozen boorish former public schoolboys blare at each other as they extol the virtues of whatever sports team is fashionable this week.
However, the post-Christmas nature of today meant that there were only four other people in editorial department. The one sound that disturbed me today was the porcine grunts and wheezes of a behemoth of an editor who fell asleep at his Apple Mac after lunch. It is amazing how much more productive you can be without the incessant chatter of spoilt, self-obsessed idiots constantly in your ears.
By 5:30pm I had finished my work and was part of the lunatic throng of Oxford Street. It was at this point the day started turning from OK to good. Surreal Girl appeared and took me to The Social – a bar she had had been promising to take me to for ages.
Skulking in the shadows of Little Portland Street, unannounced by neon or signage, The Social is my type of bar. It is something of an arty dive, but manages to be almost cool without any real ponceyness. Best of all it offered a well-pulled pint of Guinness, a glass of Tempranillo and a lovely Welsh rarebit whilst still giving change from a tenner. I immediately felt at home and pleased I had found a refuge from the tacky awfulness of West End I could use in the future. I have to hand it to her, this find yet again exhibits Surreal Girl’s uncanny knack for knowing a good spot.
With my current delicate constitution I could only manage one pint of the black stuff before heading back into the night. However, given how bad I felt this morning, the fact I was able to have a drink at all felt like a glorious victory.
Usually I am not a great fan of being the freelance leper in an editorial office. It is not the casual contempt from the permanent staff that is my main gripe; it is the level of noise. I find it hard to proofread, rewrite and create new material for another writer’s book as several unfeasibly loud and snobby women are discussing fashion and cosmetics. It is tough to be accurate or creative whilst a dozen boorish former public schoolboys blare at each other as they extol the virtues of whatever sports team is fashionable this week.
However, the post-Christmas nature of today meant that there were only four other people in editorial department. The one sound that disturbed me today was the porcine grunts and wheezes of a behemoth of an editor who fell asleep at his Apple Mac after lunch. It is amazing how much more productive you can be without the incessant chatter of spoilt, self-obsessed idiots constantly in your ears.
By 5:30pm I had finished my work and was part of the lunatic throng of Oxford Street. It was at this point the day started turning from OK to good. Surreal Girl appeared and took me to The Social – a bar she had had been promising to take me to for ages.
Skulking in the shadows of Little Portland Street, unannounced by neon or signage, The Social is my type of bar. It is something of an arty dive, but manages to be almost cool without any real ponceyness. Best of all it offered a well-pulled pint of Guinness, a glass of Tempranillo and a lovely Welsh rarebit whilst still giving change from a tenner. I immediately felt at home and pleased I had found a refuge from the tacky awfulness of West End I could use in the future. I have to hand it to her, this find yet again exhibits Surreal Girl’s uncanny knack for knowing a good spot.
With my current delicate constitution I could only manage one pint of the black stuff before heading back into the night. However, given how bad I felt this morning, the fact I was able to have a drink at all felt like a glorious victory.
2 Comments:
Even your OK days sound better than my best.
I'm keeping track of the little haunts you mention for when i come over. Thanks!
I am fairly eclectic when it comes to my haunts, but I can happily provide a list of pubs, interesting walks, neat architecture and strange spots I am fond of to anyone visiting my fair city.
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