Dogwash

The young woman finds a seat in the beergarden, carefully skirting round the feral furniture I photographed earlier. The stools have settled down a bit since my last visit and are grouped attentively around their respective parents. Nonetheless there is still a bit of a nervous edge about them, and the woman is wise to give the cluster a respectfully wide berth.

Meanwhile her male companion enters the pub to negotiate the purchase of alcoholic refreshment. Some 30 seconds later he re-emerges and, standing outside the pub, gestures for his lady friend to join him. "I've just lost ten years," he comments glumly as they set off to pursue their quest elsewhere.

Hmm. 18 + 10 = 28. Looks about right. The bloke definitely looked to be in his late twenties to me. And yet he had obviously been challenged for ID by the barmaid.

Madness.

I hope somebody doesn't take it into their heads to ask me for proof of age. The only photographic "ID" I carry around is my old freeloader's bus and train pass — my "Oyster Pay Never" card as I sometimes call it to wind up the farepaying punters. As of this writing, you have to be at least 61 to qualify for a blue Freedom Pass in London, but I don't think it's on most pubs' list of approved IDs.