Sinbad Trevelyan was sat in the corner of a dimly lit all-night Schnitzel bar called Hitler’s, nursing a bourbon. His discomfort had been noted.
‘You don’t talk to the girls?’ asked the barman. He was a decent chap, small feet. Sinbad wasn’t sure if the two were linked.
‘Not at the moment, no,’ replied Sinbad.
He was still troubled by his Picasso sex dream. Had it been her leg or my eye? he thought.
‘You don’t think she’s pretty?’ the barman said, pointing at a brunette at the end of the bar.
‘Why don’t you go and talk to her?’
Sinbad thought it the best piece of advice he’d ever been given. He got a taxi home.