Whenever I go to see Richard, we start the evening with a few drinks in The Hole in the Wall - Richard scrutinizes the potent ales on offer - asking for tasters, sipping the dizzying offerings like a pirate - frowning, then smiling, asking for two pints of Dark Arts -
We try to sit in the snug, behind the bar, under faded sepia photographs of Victorian worthies - there's just enough room for a rough wooden table - we lift our straight glasses, talk about Manila, writing poetry and False Bay Pinotage - you are apart from the louche boozing crowd in front of the bar -
You can see the beer casks, like depth charges on the deck of a destroyer - a stilled fan hangs from the yellowy brown ceiling - sprays of dried hops are suspended overhead - when I see them, I always think of sad sexy times in Kent -
When you go to the bar, you have to ease your way through the crowd - students, slim figures with their sheen of promise - gaffers with beards and anecdotes - middle aged women with their jackets and thin wrists - middle aged men with their closely cropped rugs - all joshing, drinking, flirting, story telling -
Richard said that this was a place for washed up boys - later, we might snarf sea bass at the American Bar - hear jazz at Rosie's - once, we had early morning whiskeys at Maggie and Ed's - I read there a wonderful poem by Maggie, called The Art of Detachment - I can remember my eyes filling with tears whilst I was reading it -
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