About a decade ago, I finished up a stint of bar work. I left when the boss sobered up sufficient to stop paying us all twice the award as he had accidentally been, but also at about the time our young patrons had started to behave like Presbyterian grandparents.

The first time a kid asked Rosie, our barmaid-of-a-certain-age, for a sulphite-free white wine, she told him to fuck off twice -- once for speaking publicly about a food allergy and once for ordering white wine, which we did not serve. “This’ll put hairs on your chest,” she said, and passed him a Kentucky whiskey.