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wanted.
    ‘Bloody awful. You?’
    ‘Oh, you know. Kids running riot. Kids taking drugs. Kids being suspended. The usual.’ Rob's job as head of history at the local comp gave him nearly as much pleasure as Mark's job gave him.
    ‘Fancy a beer?’ Mark kept resolving that he wasn't going to drink this early in the week. And kept giving in.
    ‘Thought you'd never ask,’ said Rob. ‘Pint at the Hookers?’
    The Hookers' real name was The Boxer's Arms, but because of the propensity of rugby players who went in there, it was commonly known as the Hookers. Although urban myth had it that it was once a knocking shop – a myth that Barry, the urbane landlord, did very little to dispel.
    ‘Just let me wash my patients’ spit off my face and get changed,’ said Mark, ‘and then I'm all yours.’
    Ten minutes later they were propping up the bar and putting the world to rights.
    ‘The usual, gentlemen?’ Barry already had their pints lined up for them. ‘You're a bit late tonight, if I may say so.’
    Bloody hell, Mark thought in dismay, I'm becoming such a regular the barman knows what time I usually come in. How the hell did that happen?
    ‘If we're not careful, we're going to end up becoming permanent fixtures,’ Mark said glumly, looking round to see the usual regulars transfixed to their usual spots. Is that how people already saw them?
    ‘So?’ said Rob. ‘I like it here. It's my kind of pub.’
    ‘You know what's going to happen to us,’ Mark said moodily, staring into his pint.
    ‘No, what?’ Rob was scanning the bar for possible talent. Rather a waste of effort considering most of the regulars were middle-aged men, but, ever the optimist, Rob never liked to miss out on any opportunity that came his way. Mark envied that optimism and the confidence that went along with it.
    ‘We're still going to be sitting here in ten years’ time,’ said Mark. He paused to listen to a song on the jukebox. ‘It's like this song – the laughs in the late-night lock-in will fade away and we'll have nothing left but sad, pathetic memories.’
    ‘And your point is?’ said Rob.
    ‘Well, look at us. We‘ve already been drinking in here for years. We stay here any longer, we'll end up fossilised.’
    ‘You know your trouble?’ asked Rob.
    ‘Nope, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me,’ replied Mark.
    ‘You need to get out more. It's time you faced up to the truth. You're wasting your time with Sam. She's gone for good. Time you moved on, mate.’
    ‘Yeah, right,’ Mark responded with a wry smile. ‘And this is really the place to do that.’
    ‘It has been known to happen,’ said Rob, tapping his nose and looking smug.
    ‘When was that then?’ teased Barry, earwigging their conversation as he wiped down the bar. ‘The dark ages?’
    ‘You remember those two art students who used to come in here a while back?’ Rob said.
    ‘What, the short tarty one and the goth?’ Barry looked impressed.
    ‘Yup,’ said Rob. ‘Didn't you wonder why they stopped coming in?’
    ‘I thought they'd just finished their course,’ said Barry.
    ‘Nope,’ said Rob, ‘they just couldn't cope with the rejection. Once you've had a taste of the Robster, everything else pales by comparison.’
    ‘That's right, Rob,’ said Mark, ‘and it's got nothing to do with the fact they found out what a bastard you are and never want to see you again.’
    ‘You're just jealous,’ laughed Rob.
    ‘I keep telling you,’ said Mark, ‘I'm happy to be single.’
    ‘Now that's where you are so wrong,’ said Rob. ‘It's not normal for someone to be celibate as long as you have been. You need to listen up and hone your seduction skills.’
    ‘And how should I do that?’ said Mark with amusement as he glanced round the pub. ‘Now you've chased the art students away, I don't exactly see them queuing up.’
    ‘Not here,’ said Rob. ‘You really must pay attention to your Uncle Rob and learn from a master. Dancing classes is