I watched him stare at his pint for an hour. He barely drank a drop. He does this every day at the same time, with the same words to the girl at the bar, shuffling to the same seat. These days he keeps his overcoat on. It is cold in the pub and word is they can’t afford to light the fire. The back exit opens intermittently for smokers and we shudder as a bitter draught blows through. It’s not for the pint I come but for company: his company. He shakes his head, like dad has done for years.