Three pints stood on the bar of the Hand and Shears, Poplar

A pint of stout, a pale ale and a shandy.

The stout was thick and strong it had been brewed for many years.

The pale ale was longstanding, popular at the bar, but you could see right through it.

The shandy held a hint of temptation, hidden by something much more well established.

A large firm calloused hand held the pint glass, a sip of stout was languished, washed around the tongue, swallowed slowly as if this might be his last. His hand stroked across the lips to clear the frothy head from his face.

The pale ale was sipped, savoured like a long forgotten kiss, the swallow was hard and then the hand returned to the beer mat, fidgety, in search of something more satisfying.

The shandy remained stoic untouched on the bar.

The pale ale said, "Shall I fetch him?" The stout replied, "no,he will join us when it is his round."