Benbecula
An insane-looking, balding dwarf stuffs money into the jukebox and subjects everyone in the bar to that Evanescence song people used to think about killing themselves to in 2003. The low drone of multilingual 9pm chat is sprinkled with the high-pitched giggles of the already half-cut, in-bed-by-twelve-with-a-stinking-kebab type. You sip your tasteless, branded lager and look from face to face to face. The bartender must be at least ten years younger than you; peroxide stains streak her hair and black eyeliner carefully shapes her eyes. Sitting hunched at the bar, you count five peanuts into your palm and pretend to be deep in thought, glancing in her direction every 30 seconds or so. She has a flirtatious manner as she drifts up and down serving pints, or maybe she doesn’t; you can never tell. Never mind. You drink your beer. A young man wearing a faded Oxford University t-shirt and an idiotic facial expression elbows you out of his way. You wait u
