East Lane selling tat, pie and mash swimming with eel liquor, Bermondsey bustling. And to the pub for bitter and Guiness, glass following glass fueling seething chatter. It’s his eightieth and I am forty and he throws out love then snatches it back. My brother-in-law, he says, has a proper job has done well for himself and for Ali and the kids. Why don’t I grow up, put in a good days work. He doesn’t know that Rob’s fucking another. Then the final cut. One short sentence. She was too good for you, Andrew I stand tall with half a lifetimes rage and I smash my glass into his face. For just a moment I’m astride the globe. A man, free at last from him. But I catch myself. I slowly stand up and I say another pint then?