God bless the old soaks

Yet another Friday night at The Betsey Trotwood. I've had a fair few of those recently. In the basement inmates from nearby St Martin's College were having a shindig, and upstairs an office leaving do was in progress. In the main bar, the normal harmonious mix of characters clustered around the tables.

However much you try and appeal to a select audience, when you run a boozer you need to be prepared for a certain type of customer: the random old drunk. They're always male, grey haired and absolutely pished. The noisy ones need to be shown the door, but last night we encountered the silent type. The little old man, in his long overcoat and blue hat, seemed to have lost his vocal cords, relying instead on the art of mime to indicate his state of mind.

At one point he wandered downstairs to the gig, encountering a student girl with tell-tale dilated pupils. His eyes widened in surprise as she engaged with him. Two people dancing together, separated by generations and the varying experiences offered by their respective intoxicants. He moved slowly and ponderously, his expression filled with bafflement, but he danced.

His finest hour didn't come until he left the building and began to stagger down Farringdon Road, past the front windows of the pub. Spotting a candle burning inside, he attempted to blow it out - through the glass. It was the kind of moment mobile phone cameras were made for. We later discovered he'd left his coat behind, so perhaps he'll come back for it next week. I hope so.