34 to 1 and pocket pool

When I boarded the plane from Johannesburg it was 34C (that's about 93 for the F peeps) and when I stepped off the plane in London it was 1C (about 33F). My body has refused to re-acclimate and my mind isn't far behind. I have been triple rolled in my duvet the last couple of nights in a vain attempt to ward off the cold cold air surrounding my bed. Lucky for me a friend met me at one of my favourite pubs last night. Twas a great reminder why I love London, even if I did nearly freeze. I also, as luck would have it, was the recipient of what seemed to be a quick game of pocket pool.
**Warning: I can laugh at myself and my partner in crime last night can laugh at me even more. The following story is not for the prude, faint of heart or otherwise humourously challenged.**

Let me explain. Upon leaving the first pub last night we wandered to a second for a top off to end the evening. When we entered, the smell was so offensive that we decided without even speaking to take our drinks outside (yes, into the 1 or possibly 0 by this time freezing cold air). Whilst discussing the meaning of life erm ok maybe it was more like the meaning of Chelsy and Harry splitting up, the bar man interuppeted us to ask if we smoked. He was collecting the ash trays, so the question seemed relevant.

No, we both answered.
How long have you been here, he continued.
Um, 10 minutes, we said.
No in this country, he stammerd.
He Scottish, I confused, looked at him and repeated 10 minutes.

My mate and I both expected a one person rant on the evils of America, Bush and everyone who happened to be born in the vast country also known as a world oppressor. Instead we got a very disconnected lecture on how we would soon start smoking in this freezing depressed desolate city otherwise known as London. Now is probably a good time to mention that the lower half of this very eloquent man was hidden behind a short fence and under the table. We finished our pints and left, probably a little faster then normal given the special friend we had clearly attracted. We got to the tube station and I noticed white splashes up the side of my knee high black boot, but only the left one. Splashes that looked suspiciously like the remnants of a one handed shuffle. It was quite possibly one of the most disturbing looking things to have been bestowed on me in over 3 years living in London (and trust me, this is saying a lot). Laugh and the world laughs with you, get a sticky white substance splashed on your boot and the world laughs at you.