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Oh sacred memory. The Knights Templar in Chancery Lane. One of the Legal London pubs. And a Wetherspoons, but a better sort, don't you know.

After a day of training lawyers at the venerable institution with which I was happy to be connected in my second career, there would always be a few down at the KT Monday-Thursday from 4.30pm for a couple, to digest and deconstruct the day, Not the same folk every day, of course, because that would be the type of alcoholism that would be hard to explain away. 

"Something for the weekend, sir?". As an eight-year old lad I am seated on a plank placed over the barber's chair. My father went first, while I amused myself with tales of Dan Dare from The Eagle magazine. Now my turn, for a brusquely delivered short back and sides. Customer care has not been invented yet for kids. As I sit rigidly in my place a middle-aged chap from another chair goes up to pay. The question is delivered, and as a result some further commerce is transacted, although what comes out from under the counter and disappears into a brown paper bag, I cannot tell.