The world's our lobster*

So, it’s Saturday night, we’re in the West End of London, in the middle of Theatreland, on the edges of Soho, and we’ve just emerged from the last night of a West End show. Of course, our thoughts fly to alcohol. There has to be lots of pubs with a late licence here, doesn’t there? – after all we know how actors like a drink. There must be half a dozen pubs within a few hundred yards.

The first one we try, a woman at the door tells us it’s closing (it’s 10 to 11, and no one has dipped any lights**). The next one, hmmm, not really our style. There’s Walkabout across the road, people are still going in, and there’s a bouncer on the door. ‘What time are you open until?’ ‘3am, £8 entry’. Well, if I was going to pay £8 before I even get a drink, it wouldn’t be to go into Walkabout. We see another bar/club - £10 entry on a Saturday night. No chance. By this point all the pubs that looked like they were open are starting to close and we start to wonder what a girl has to do to get a drink in this city! We give up, and head back to the hotel bar, which we know is open till 2am, and which will probably work out cheaper. As we head back we’re hailed from a stretch pickup (I kid you not!) with the enticing cry of ‘Oi! Birds!’ Strangely, we’re not tempted by this.

* Cat, I told you I’d call it that
**well known as the universal signal for closing time