His name is Royston. When a customer enters the bar he asks them what his name means. Can they translate it? He can’t see that other people want him to go away. The barman wants him to stop talking so he can update his blog and I want to float my thoughts on a pint of something brewed in the cellar next door.
He thinks his name might have something to do with red. He buys me a pint so I am honour bound to listen while he talks absolute shoe-makers. When he goes outside for a cigarette the fresh air gives him a beating. He swerves back and shakes my hand – then puts his arm round me. I remove myself from his personal space – downing my pint in an updrunk rush.
“You might be famous one day – with you being a writer and doing writing.”
I sign the bar mat and watch ink spread into the damp cardboard.
The barman winks as I return my glass – I can guess what he’s blogging about.