is quiet on the inside on account of having very few customers but noisy on the outside on account of the Highway traffic thundering along night and day: there are a couple of tables outside where smokers can choke on the bouquet of fag vapour and diesel particulate in the drizzle, perhaps reading a book under the glow of the street lights.
Guinness @ £3 a pint, though the bar is unmanned - or unwomaned - the staff watching American sitcoms on a satellite channel. Be prepared to wait a couple of moments. The decor is a happy mix of London boozer - dark-brown Anaglypta on the ceilings, the walls a deep shade of green with various "historic" prints hanging - and the bargain basement at World of Leather. Indeed, all the sofas and chairs might have been repossessed from council houses in Bolton, such is their shabbiness and lazy comfort - the imprint of office-suited bottoms flumping into them over the months and years.
The fire places have dried flowers, pots and suchlike. I daresay it was deemed prudent to remove the pokers, tongs and coal shovels. There are pool cues behind the bar and my first thought was that this was the sort of place where the staff needed the cues to keep order since there didn't seem to be a table handy. Not so, the table is up a flight of stairs in a darkened space that is reserved for parties and such.
All in all, rather good. There is no bustle or show - how very unlike Belgravia - and it is place to sup and chat and rest your arse and your eyes for an hour or so.
