There are few sights more beautiful in this city than a busy pub bathing in sunshine, light dancing on Victorian tiles, the inelegant throng of the willingly thirsty.
London in warmer months brings these nourishing scenes: revellers spilling out onto pavements armed with pints, gin and tonics and iced glasses of rose, the odd chip dropped consciously to one of the many dogs flopped over in a grump. Our old pub dog, Alan, knew exactly how to lure diners into parting with their fried potatoes. Funny, isn’t it? Suburban types who wouldn’t share anything much with anyone, more than happy to go halves with a springer spaniel.
