Roxanne's at a few minutes to twelve. On the dancefloor a pair of mini-skirted fiftysomethings shuffle through wisps of smoke. A bouncer eyes the room from a bar rail and men in untucked shirts stare malevolently at a staircase. Mirrors on the far wall reflect the bottom half of my body and the unfinished £3 pint that tastes of pipe cleaner and over-ripe orange. The air reeks of mildew, spilt beer and too much aftershave. My feet squelch against the carpet. Down the street, past the burger van, neon-lit shark heads, cashpoint queues and late night McDonald's, the last metro pulls out of the station.
We drink up, grimacing, and head next door.