Rosie and Kev

It wasn’t meant to be grandiose. Kev and Rosie command presence, though, and with that, reverence. Entering the hotel—they, or Rosie, prefers hotel over pub—the local barflies hover a little lower, keen to fix a gaze without buzzing too close.

Kev and Rosie’s union oscillates between at least two worlds: the relocated baby-boomer, with all that comes with this privileged space, and the scaled-down socialite, alternating between upmarket entertainment and plain old pub life.

I gave them the widest of berths at first. Now less so. I’m beginning to understand their contradiction of being.

The language can be so proper, and then from the street. Some stories are cold sober, others pleasantly lurid. The jokes—Kev’s domain—are always belly-busting. Just don’t tell him!

Kev drinks cans—he has a habit of squashing them after the last drop, a signal for refill maybe. Rosie flits between non-house red and London gin — actually, she doesn’t mind Four Pillars. I chuckle when she points to the back bar, signalling she only drinks the good stuff. This is often misinterpreted by new servers, who disappear thinking Miss Rosie is dismissing them to lesser rigours.

I’ve seen them eat at the bar—who doesn’t love a meal next to the taps—and then use the dining room. This is when Rosie switches to New York mode. Kev plays along, reluctantly.

I like them now. The barflies? I think so too, although they don’t spend quite as much time psycho-analysing the perfectly mismatched couple.

Anyway, they’re here. I have to go.

Nick

Photo by Ahtziri Lagarde on Unsplash