Sunday afternoon in a Church Street bar. It’s my round. The girl at the counter has slender grace, wavy copper-gold hair and marble cheekbones.

“Half a Guinness, a large white wine and a pint of Beck’s.”

She pours the stout and reaches in the fridge for the wine. There’s not quite enough in the bottle for a whole glass, so she takes out a fresh one. It has a screw cap. She grips the top and twists hard. Nothing happens.

She puts the unopened bottle back in the fridge and picks out another one. Again, she grips the top and twists. But the cap won’t budge.

“Can…,” I begin. She takes the bottle by the base and tilts it so the neck is pointing at me. I take the wine and screw off the cap, but it’s a near thing. I hand it back to her.

“Hasn’t she got beautiful eyes?” asks a dark haired woman, sitting on a stool next to me.

“She has very beautiful eyes,” I agree as the barmaid’s cheeks dapple with crimson. “Very beautiful.”