The Winter Palace

I’ve always thought that London is a winter city.

Winter suits her fragile beauty and is the delicate snow and fog laced frock that she wears the most prettily.

[I may have been a bit drunk the first time I thought this]

That said, I’ve certainly been known to be wrong now and then, and in fact have come to regard the phrase ‘trust your own best judgement’ as more of a threat than vote of confidence. And so I know that there are those who think, not without reasonable justification, that London is at her most fetching in summer.

However, and in a similar fashion, I think we can all agree that The Taps is at her best in the winter. It’s her moment in the sun (if you’ll pardon the mangled metaphor); her Britain’s Got Talent, her Glee Project, her X-Factor, her American Idol.

[This occurs to me now as we (Colin, Irena and I) were talking about Christmas the night before last. Ridiculous though it seems, we’re already half way through August and heading quickly for autumn, and lurking quietly beyond autumn lies Christmas].

Which set me thinking about winter in general.

The taps is glorious in winter, when the sky is red black and the rain falls in ice cold sheets that obscure the yellow gleam of the street lights outside. When there’s nothing better than coming back from work wrapped up, scarfed, gloved and mittened against the cold and walking in to the warmth of the Taps. When the nights are dark and cold and everyone’s spirits are in similar distress. That my friends is when the Taps keeps winning.

When, regulars gathered around the bar listening to the fall of rain outside or watching the first flakes of snow begin to gather through the window, the Taps is such a nice place to be.