The Morden was a long steep drop from the usual bars I'd drank in in Greenwich. It was strictly short-term, but even then, it meant I had to start all over again in a different school of thought. I was the new boy for about a week until anyone spoke to me, though I wasn't scared off like some were, or in there with any illusions other than getting served. I quite liked the barmaid, painfully so, but knew I would have still gone in there whether she existed or not.
The one that worked in the afternoon was a frightening creature with a swastika tattoo on her back. She had a string of very suitable boyfriends, who'd often turn up an hour before her shift ended to intimidate the customers, while she slipped them drinks for free. It worked for some, but not me and I quickly got to learn what days she came in and what days she didn't.
The mid mornings were better, when the pub lurched back to its feet from the spit and sawdust floor.
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