On the way home after ice-skating, we came across a set of isolated stairs in the middle of the pavement leading down to a bar underground. Puzzled and intrigued, we went down to take a look and a drink. Called CellarDoor, it’s a tiny place of ever-changing lighting and funky décor where the bar-maids all wear angel wings. Tiny but cozy, it serves cocktails and (legal) snorts of snuff and has an sms jukebox. It was so very strange we postulated the origin of such a place. M said public toilet, I thought entrance to underground station. M was right.
I now have the dubious honour of being able to say I’ve spent at least an hour drinking in a men’s public toilet. One to remember that's for sure! ;-)
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