THERE WAS ONLY ONE PUB IN TOWN AND THAT NIGHT IT was crowded with damp bodies. Smell of hops and beer spilled on old carpet, wet leather and flannel. It smelled like men, like my father. He had learned to drink in a dry country, during the droughts of the late sixties, the year he turned thirteen, and he never really stopped. There’s always a drought somewhere, was his reasoning.
