—Landlord’s changed the bitter, Graham said.
—Has he?
—Taste it. It’s got citrus in it, or somethin.
—Citrus?
—Orange peel or somethin. Like Fairy Liquid, innit?
—It’s Timothy Taylor’s, Graham. It’s the same bloody tap it’s been since the Falklands.
Graham picked up his glass. Held it against the stained glass panel behind the booth. The yellow light cut through the beer.
—It’s cloudy, he said.
—It’s not cloudy. Put your glasses on.
—I left ’em in the glove box.
—Right, ya muppet.
Outside, a light October rain began to tick against the leaded panes. A Sunday driver in a Vauxhall Corsa backed into the pub car park, took three attempts to clear the hedge, and gave up.
Graham ripped open the yellow packet of Scampi Fries. The smell hit the table: artificial lemon, salt, dried fish meal, and nostalgia.
—Want one?
—No.
—Go on.
—I don’t want a Scampi Fry at half past two in the afternoon.
—They’re ninety pence. He’s put them up from eighty-five. Five pence for nothing.
—Five pence for inflation.
—There’s no inflation on cereal snacks. It’s maize meal and powder.
He shook two into his palm and tipped them into his mouth. Chewed with his jaw moving sideways, slow, like an old sheep.
—You spoke to Dave? Graham asked.
—Thursday.
—How’s his knee?
—Took fluid off it, didn’t they.
—Good.
—He says he can’t drive the van ’til November.
—November?
—That’s what he said.
—He could drive an automatic.
—He hasn’t got an automatic. He’s got an 08 plate Transit with a sticky clutch.
Graham nodded. Took another sip of the bitter. Made a face.
—Definitely grapefruit, he said.
—Drink your beer, mate.
—I am drinking it. I’m just saying, if you ask for a pint of bitter in Grimsditch in 2026, you shouldn’t feel like you’ve been sprayed with Febreze or summat like that.
—You want another?
—Not of this.
—What then?
—Same again. Just to see if the second one settles down.