Holloway, open mic night

Home late, flatmate Rob's at large,
flipping pancakes for a Japanese girl.
'Not like you to skip your football night,'
I say. Sipping wine, they seek his room.
Ten minutes later, she's done, stalks off,
no goodbyes. Then, he's back, loose
dressing gown, gold medallion, 'Lowest
maintenance bird I've ever met,' he says.
'She just needs dinner.' Still up for action,
he suggests we attend an open mic night.
We go, watch a duet in shades, guitars,
the vocal inaudible. Next, a girl, rather
nervous, with home-made backing track.
'Let's find that special place,' she sings.
'My special place calls,' declares Rob.
'Where's the bog?' I too need a break,
skating the road, get a sense of flow.