The bar is busy. The tables are full. The backroom is heaving and buoyant.
Welcome to the Sebright Arms, dimly light and vivacious.
We arrive from Soho at the fading of a sun drenched afternoon – four pubs, six pints, four hours.
Three and a half miles later, bellies demanding meat and bread and barley, we bundle over the threshold. A table is found, pale beers ordered, burger menus devoured by hungry eyes.
It’s a young crowd, an old crowd. It’s a quiet crowd and a rowdy crowd. Some here for the pub, some hunting out the resident Lucky Chip pop up kitchen.
Smokers tarnish the air outside, drinkers slop beer inside. The buzz is accentuated by beer (it’s a thin line between that and a booze buffer between the world and our senses, perhaps?)
The burgers perspire garnish, pint glasses soon sticky with the sweat of carnivorous satisfaction. And boy they taste good!
Another beer? Of course! The night is young, and the Sebright Arms is only just getting started.
