And then yesterday, outside, by the river Thames, in view of maritime houses, rocks, walls, chains and bollards, bridges, boats and piers, in view of the very un-wharf-like sparkling sterility of Canary Wharf, there were perhaps a hundred, a hundred and fifty voices resonating from the round and wonky tables of a pub called *** . Round and wonky tables marked with cigarette burns from elated guests when an ashtray is just out of reach. Tables whose burns are soothed every now and then with toppled liquid gold. 

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Pubs' smoking areas possess this odd magic, somewhere between 6 and 9pm, where resonating voices replace time, when the elated float in-between thought and speech, in-between table and bar, darts and toilet. The area turns into one large organism where a drink spilled might leave a glass fuller than before. If pub smoking areas had a slogan it might be served with a cheeseboard of sharing is caring.