It was one of those pubs, the ones with pretensions, and delusions of grandeur. The lonely dartboard was still there, a black and white bloodshot eye glaring out from the newly painted Farrow & Ball walls. It was occupying a dimly lit corner of the room, and it was clear to see that it was being starved of darts and fading fast. The new manager of the boozer didn’t want to encourage the old locals to come back in with their shabby clothes and monographed dart flights. The new locals – the ones with the money and the children, the chocolate labrador called Archie, or a pug called Inky – those merry little units of well-to-do, who needed a Sunday roast cooked for them by a proper chef, were where the future of the pub lay. The hot plate with the glass front that was home to the steak and kid
