I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table-the only place in the garden where a sing man could linger without looking purposeless & alone.

Sophara scrawled orders on a slate and handed it to one of the libationarians, whose encyclopedic knowledge of the contents and locations of all the bottles kept the bar running.

I staggered into a Manchester bar late one night on a tour and the waitress said “You look as if you need a Screaming Orgasm”. At the time this was the last thing on my...