The lecturer was a prick. Bearded, too. He treated us like shite. I could care. He was mouthing about Trollope and I tuned out. At least it was warm. I’d clocked a dark-haired woman to my left. Aged in early forties with a strong face, sallow skin. Beneath a heavy parka, I surmised a rich body. She’d caught my eye, lingered, moved on. Class over, the guy was handing out assignments. The woman turned to me, said,

“Guten Tag, Gedichte und Briefe zweisprächig.”

“What?”

“Emily Dickson, her poems.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She put out her hand, said,

“Kiki.”

You immediately betray your age if you think “Kiki Dee”. I said,

“Jack Taylor.”

“So, Jack Taylor, would you join me for a drink?”

“I’ll try.”

She had an accent like a European who’s learnt English in America. Not unpleasant.

There’s a certain grandeur about English pubs. It’s entirely different from the Irish animal. I hate to be the one to voice it, but they seem cosy. They did after all give us the term snug. Battened against the cold, we didn’t speak the short distance to the pub. Once inside, we thawed in every sense of the word. She stood before an open fire, began to unwrap. I began to unravel. I hadn’t had a line in four days. Not abstinence but my dealer got busted. The sniffles had nothing to do with temperature. I was cold, within and without, asked,

“What’ll it be?”

“Oh, hot toddies, am I correct?”

“Are you ever?”

The barman/governor was elephants. The giveaway: blasted face, tired suit and too tight sovereign rings. He bellowed,

“And a good evening to you, sir.”