Here it comes again, the inevitable argument, always after three pints, four vodka and cokes and a packet of scampi fries. They say they love each other and work hard to buy things they have no need for, covering the house they can barely afford. But here they are again, in the pub, drinking to relax, to forget, then they realise how utterly pointless it all is and blame each other in a harrowing exchange of spit and drones.
Suddenly they slow to a whisper. A smile, a sudden burst of excitement that has the locals staring through their pints. ‘Were having a baby! Drinks are on me!’
And the world keeps on turning.