The pub is the only building on the street with the lights turned on. Resting on the corner, it's one of those old style drinking holes, complete with faded advertisements for KB and Melbourne Bitter. Inspired chatter leaks out into the night air, mingling with the patter of a light rain.
I step inside, greeted by a blast of warm air, humid with laughter and rosy cheeks.
I don't particularly like the West End. I never drink here, only visiting to pick up a takeaway on increasingly regular occasions. The clientele are redolent of the decor, musty and just a little too well-worn. I recognise most of them; mainly the parents of kids from the neighbourhood. While the little ones sleep (or, more likely, smoke bongs and raid the liqour cabinet), mum or dad and sometimes both are getting wasted and flirting with anyone they can.
Come to think of it, I don't know if the decor is actually that terrible, its just that the air of desperation makes it appear more sordid than it really is. I hand the bar tender a crumpled note and collect my beer, trying to avoid eye-contact as I leave the building.
Stepping out onto the street, I clasp the bottle clad in brown paper close to my chest to protect it from the rain, heading home as the opening chords of Michael Jackson's 'Man in the Mirror' ooze out of the jukebox.
