Butterflies on shoulders, daisies on hips; every woman here sported the kind of tattoo that wouldn’t punish her in her fifties. The men weren’t much different; a bit of sleeve work here and there, proudly on show in the summer sun, but nothing that couldn’t be hidden by a clean white shirt on Monday morning.

Nothing worse

She told some story about single casks and small batch distillers and blah blah blah whisky pointlessness. There’s nothing worse than a connoisseur. I sat and smoked and sipped my drink as she went on, filling the air with vapid small talk and clouds of smoke.