Keats, our home away from home

What could possibly be the appeal of an old man's Irish Pub? Surely not the dirty restrooms. Or the overpriced food. Or the dubious (and sometimes apparently flatulent) clientele.

And yet, somehow, Keats has wormed itself into our hearts as our regular local.

I step in from the biting cold, to be greeted by hugs from Jackie and Dan, and a "Good to see ya again sweetheart!". Milo and Dub are already at the counter, all smiles and warmth. There's a sense of homecoming.

I know my seat, they know my order, I exchange a mutual nod of acknowledgement with the other familiar faces around. Everyone is a regular here, everyone is a local. There's a sense of belonging.

There's a hundred nicer bars, there's a hundred bars closer to home. But they don't have Jackie and Dan, or the warmth and welcome. They don't have that sense of homecoming and belonging. They don't have the gathered memories of many many evenings past.

Of shared confidences and histories with Dub.
Of wild karaoke evenings with Ilajna.
Of agonising with Milo between the OC and the NC.
Of Azdadoobie's first experience with the Men's restrooms.

Nope, safe to say, for reasons somewhat beyond our grasp and understanding, Keats has established itself firmly as our home away from home.