The Peacock is the local journalists hangout. It is suitably refined, with solid oak furniture, fine tapestry furniture and a dabble of leather here and there. The place is host to the meetings for our local branch of the National Union of Journalists and it for that reason (but also because its just a hop, skip, and jump across the road from the Centre for Broadcast & Journalism which we often leave exhausted and ready for a pint after a long hard day's studies), I expect this joint will increasingly become a hangout.
After another endruing newsday to end the week, our course director Dave managed to drag himself out for a brew with the lot of us. Tonight, I managed a half pint of Directors Ale - mainly because I liked the rooster on the label. Rooster? Cock? Not sure...anyhow my subconscious yielded to the bird after walking into the door of the Peacock I suppose.
On that note, as long as I never step into a place called the 'Absynthe' or the 'Double Jagger Bomb then I should be able to hold my own...
