Duchess meets me after work, as promised. He is shorter than me. Dark hair frames his dark face, an outfit of white-collar office wear contrasts his evident energy and passion for existence. He exudes uncategorized life, his dress contains it in dead lines. He is not shy to shake my hand.
A short walk from the Genera, we arrive at the pub in question. A sign outside associates the name of the pub with symbols of an eye and a teardrop. Duchess tells me that locals consider the pub to be "where widows go to drown themselves." He says this with a perverse grin. I smile in return. He is not sure whether the drinks are any good.
Inside, the owners feed to patrons a steady diet of crisps, guest ales, and generic 70s rock (I recognize Fleetwood Mac as the most memorable). Duchess has a particular ale and suggests I try it: White Whale, advertised as "The only ale worth dedicating your life to." It's alright. The bartender does not look completely aware of her surroundings.
We spend a few hours drinking and exchanging details about each other and our opinions of our jobs. By six o'clock, the environs are graced by Mordecai's grumpy presence (she orders a Carlsberg and hides off in the corner). By seven, a woman still in work uniform saunters in who I am told is Doctor Cloud (she asks for some lager I cannot hear and remains at the bar). The clock now strikes eight.
The music, by this point, has already diverged into anachronisms on patron request.
Duchess nudges my shoulder, leans in, and asks if I've heard the rumours about our company. I have not.
"They say our blogs are written in captivity, that somewhere under our buildings are massive fleets of prison cells, each containing an author for a blog."
I can't help but laugh at this. I ask who started this rumour.
"We used to have this intern, she had the codename of Lilywhite Lilith, she was always coming up with this kind of thing. I think she even believed some of it."