Scenes in Pubs

'You love putting scenes in pubs' said my aunt Bernadine in one of our last conversations, one when she would have said, kindly, we were speaking author to author.
A quiet pub, busy, not too full, is a consulting room, exhibition gallery, human zoo. You sit quite comfortably with a drink that is refreshing rather than strong, and observe the scene around you, watching, joining (and overhearing) the banter, the illicit contacts, the phatic arguments, the endless competitive verities and massaged memories that make up the stories that fill the air.
There is a golden moment, maybe during the third round of drinks, when guards are down yet reactions are still sharp enough for conversation to flow with accurate listening as well as poetic speech.

Later of course, there is the inevitable, enjoyable slide. Poetry and sometimes song take over, then all becomes a little too subjective, solipsistic and self-parodying. Though there is continuing fascination in observing, joining, the endless range of effects the same number of pints can have on different people sitting around the same table.
Of course it's all very expensive and can be ruined by the intrusion of music or food (both necessities of life, of course, but not necessities of pub life). It can still, though, be bloody brilliant. Both in life and in writing.