‘Well, silly old bitch, if she’s that concerned about her work she should go somewhere less picturesque,’ Jim said unrepentantly. ‘What were you doing there? I thought the Bod was your usual poison.’

‘Oh, you know me. I was just admiring the architecture,’ replied Omar with a shrug. ‘And you?’

’Ditto. King’s Arms or the Turf?’ asked Jim.

’I guess the King’s Arms, it’s nearer,’ said Omar.

‘Turf it is,’ said Jim, putting his hands deep in his pockets and striding off.

‘I really don’t know why you bother even asking me,’ muttered Omar, without any real annoyance, walking quickly to catch up with him.

The Turf Tavern was filled with a heady scent of mulled wine and was quieter than Omar had seen it, but it was quite early in the afternoon. If he hadn’t been working on his last essay of the term, he wouldn’t have let Jim persuade him to stay for a second pint. Jim insisted on ordering a new brew on the blackboard, Fuggles Chocolate Ale. ‘Come on, with a name like that it’s criminal not to try it,’ he burped. Despite dedicated practice, the nice Cornish lad still wasn’t very good at holding his drink.

‘It doesn’t taste like chocolate,’ said Omar, who was still extremely sober as his time with the band had hardened him up. He started humming a tune he had recently begun working on.

‘Is that one of your brother’s?’ asked Jim, his hand-some face flushed with the heat of the pub and the drink.

‘Nope, one of mine,’ said Omar, a little proudly. ‘It’s called “Screwed Up and Over#8221;. A friend of mine from Tooting gave me the idea.’

‘Are you going to give it to the band? Belated parting gift?’ asked Jim.

‘Well, I thought about it. But I know Sharif wouldn’t think it was right for the band. A bit too bluesy, and the lyric is really for a girl. I guess I just wrote it for me.’

‘You should go solo. You’re the one with the bloody talent. Sod the rest of them,’ said Jim a little drunkenly.

’Thanks, Oakley, you’re a mate,’ grinned Omar.

After the third pint, Omar thought he really had better get back to the library, if only to pick up his papers. He walked Jim back the short distance to his room out of habit. ‘How come I’m always the one who has to look out for the college drunks?’ he said as he opened Jim’s door for him with the key that Jim kept strung round his neck on a slim leather string, trying not to choke him in the process.