At the William Wallace (and after)

It's raining and the white terraces are painted copper in the evening light that Ray says will bring hail.

We peer through the window of the gallery and imagine we have the means to buy art. Isn't Ken Unsworth a sculptor?

There's a man sitting at the bar eating soup. Ray says he's here every night, and I wonder how he knows about the consistency. Tonight the soup man is not alone, a friend by his side.

The phone rings at the bar and it's for one of the punters. Who is it? he says. It sounds like the barmaid says John Howard but it's possible the whole bar has misheard. Alright, I'll take it, he says. Laughter all round.

Over steak and chips, we talk about Babel and branding, the surface area of food and the copywriter who can't write because of the Scissor Sisters. Ray says he likes to eat peas without chewing them. I'm sometimes distracted by people playing pool behind Chris. There's a football team wearing shiny shirts and drinking in the corner.

When I get home they're eating mushroom risotto and talking about boys at uni who had crushes on Ed. Then we get on to Louis Lusty and Snoop Colquhoun. Pickle is under the table with his legs in the air.