Thirty Days Of Julia: Day Thirteen

She frequented The Barge Aground: a pub
with quasi-history, rebuilt far from
the rotting wharves of Barking Creek. A sign
outside the entrance, in fake gothic script
on melamine with knotted oak finish,
urged gentlemen to surrender their swords.
A direction doormen enforced without
horse and pistols, but with the latter-day
pugnacity of Dick Turpin. She walked,
all swagger, to the bar and was served her
Double Diamond double quick. When I waved
a pound note and sought to make eye contact
with the barmaid, I was invisible.
She laughed at me through a moustache of foam.