Beagle Club

I’m standing in the middle of the Beagle Club lobby facing the entrance. I was on my way out. But now I’ve stopped. It’s 4.37 on a Saturday afternoon. I’ve just finished my weekly writing class. I’m looking for Sarah; but she’s not here.

Dusty golden sunshine is spilling in through the club’s open front doors. Sun beams are hitting the hem of my trousers. Some of them have bounced from car windows outside on Martin Street.

Martin Street is a tiny part of the hustle and bustle of London (an abstract cacophony hued by fourteen million minds).

My fellow writing students, on their way home, are shuffling past me. The exodus is causing floor-boards beneath me to sigh and creak. The floor boards are covered with thick and expensive blue carpet (with printed golden dogs on it). For some strange reason the carpet is covered with sheets of cheap bubble wrap. Each student’s footstep is causing the bubble wrap to go snap crackle and pop .

To my right there is another open doorway; behind which lies the famously frequented Beagle Bar. Being day-time the air smells of stale beer and smoked upholstery.

As I look into the bar a ghosted vision of nightly goings-on is almost palpable.
Intellectual conversations intermingled with hands up skirts. Brandy and port meeting beer and baby-cham.

I can even see the table where Mathew laughed so hard his nose bled. (That was the night that Stephen offered his coke soaked silk handkerchief. He offered it to stop the bleeding. He subsequently penned the moment in one of his books.)

Pulling back. To my left. A large oak reception desk. Behind which stand two slick bun haired blond receptionists. Both wearing blue uniforms. Both with a Dog on the lapelle.

The girl on the right is wearing bright red undefined lipstick (to the point of Robert Smith). They’re both smiling at me strangely. Probably wondering why I’m standing here. In the middle of the lobby. With a notebook. Looking at them. Writing.

Behind me are two doors which are very difficult to open. The door on the left leads to my writing class. I pass through this door each week and symbolically climb its narrow, creaky, winding staircase; seeking the font of knowledge that lies at the top.

The door on the right ~ leads to the toilet