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last it had.
    “If The Flying Swan really was along here,” said Russell to no-one but himself, “the folk who run this pub must know about it.”
    Russell came to an abrupt halt before the door. Because here a great problem presented itself. Russell did not go into pubs. It was quite simply something he did not do. As a non-smoker, the very smell of pubs appalled him. And as virtually a non-drinker, there was little point in him going into them anyway.
    Although regular pub-goers will tell you that all the most interesting people are to be found in pubs and that the heart of a town is its finest tavern, this is not altogether true.
    Pub-goers actually represent a tiny percentage of any given town’s population [11] . Curiously enough, exactly the same percentage as regular church-goers. And regular church-goers will tell you that all the most interesting people are to be found in churches (and so on and so forth).
    Russell dithered. This was probably all a waste of time anyway, perhaps he could just interview passers-by, get himself a clipboard and tell them he was doing a survey. That would be for the best.
    Russell turned to walk away. But then he stopped to pause for further thought. It was no big deal going into a pub. If he came out stinking of cigarette smoke it hardly mattered, his clothes would be going into the wash at the end of the day anyway. He was being a real wimp about this. If Morgan were to find out, he’d never let him hear the last of it.
    “Right,” said Russell, squaring his shoulders and taking a breath so deep as might hopefully last him throughout his visit. Up to the door, turn the handle, enter.
    Russell entered The Bricklayer’s Arms.
    It was really quite nice inside. It didn’t smell
too
bad. The furniture was all mellow browns and greens, glowing softly in that light you only find in pubs. The saloon bar was low ceilinged and narrow, a few high stools ranked before the counter and on these sat lunch-time patrons: secretaries from the office blocks on the Great West Road, young bloods in suits with mobile phones. A couple of old boys slung darts in the general direction of a mottled board, a number of trophies glittered in a case on the wall. Ordinary it was, what you might expect, anywhere.
    Russell approached the bar. The young bloods made him feel somewhat uneasy. He was in jeans and a sweatshirt, they wore professional suits. Perhaps he should go round to the public bar.
    “What’ll it be then, love?” The barmaid caught Russell’s eye. And most winsomely she caught it too. A tall narrow blonde of a woman, constructed to Russell’s favourite design. Wide blue eyes and a big full mouth that was full of big white teeth.
    The words “a Perrier water” came into Russell’s mind, but “a pint of best bitter,” came out of his mouth.
    “Coming right up.” The barmaid turned away, with a sweep of golden hair and a click-clack of high heels. Russell spied out an empty stool at the end of the counter and climbed onto it. Why had he said
that
? A pint of best bitter? Russell didn’t even like best bitter, Russell
hated
best bitter. But Russell knew exactly why he’d said it. Real men didn’t drink Perrier water. Blond barmaids liked real men. Russell liked blond women.
    “There you go,” said the barmaid, presenting Russell with his pint. He paid up and she smiled warmly upon him. As she brought him his change she said, “Funny you should drink bitter, I thought my luck had changed.”
    “Pardon,” said Russell.
    “My horoscope in the paper this morning said love may come in the shape of a tall dark stranger.”
    “Indeed?” said Russell, warming to the idea.
    “A tall dark stranger who drinks the water of life.”
    “Eh?” said Russell.
    “Only water of life in this place is Perrier water,” said the barmaid. “Still, I’ll keep looking, you never know, do you?”
    “No,” said Russell, as she turned away to serve a young man who had recently entered the pub,