The Red Lion

Apart from the worn stone-step where drunks still topple, or the hand-painted sign, all has changed, now a neon glow backlights a plasticized fascia, all ‘local color’ painted over. In the car park, two frizzy blondes face off, The smaller has plastic bangles, she rattles like a Zulu warrior, fingers stab through cusswords. Youths shout over the clomping-thump of their car radios. "I used to come here often" I explain to my incredulous wife. "Good times."