A few pups | a few canons | one single bar

[mm_z]

Martin Crieff is in the bar today, out of uniform and looking positively exhausted. All he wanted was to come home from moving a wardrobe from Canterbury to Mousehole and pass out in his attic. Instead, he got brought here, so he's done the next best thing: passed out on the sofa.

Feel free to wake him up if he's in your way. Or if you just feel like being a bit mean.



Jackson Holmes has claimed a few tables for himself today. He's trying to work out how to get some sort of wireless network to function in the bar. It's... not going well. At all. Surely, this should be a simple task for the child prodigy that single-handedly threw London into chaos with a stunt involving some clocks. But it isn't, and it's starting to get annoying. Nothing works the way it should around here. No wonder Dad is suspicious of this place.



Ford Prefect is up at the bar, getting spectacularly drunk and talking to some invisible being. Or maybe just to himself. It's difficult to tell. Either way, it looks like he's having fun.



Harry Lockhart is by the fire, and unusually for him, he has shoes on today. OK, they're ratty old trainers that barely have enough lace left to even tie, but they still count.

He's also just got all the bandaging and everything off his hand, and is just now seeing for the first time the extent of the damage to his finger. About 2/3 worth of it, to be exact. That other guy wasn't kidding. Re-learning his magic tricks is going to be hell.