Perhaps it's because I'm just a silly American Ex-pat, but there is one thing about London that I just don't get: pubs like the Yorkshire Grey on Langham Street. The venue is lovely, there's a great place outside to stand around to socialize and smoke, the bar staff was friendly...but what in god's name is with the drinks? I believe the correct term for this sort of public house is "traditional", as in they serve old-school brands of ales, have one type of cider on tap - but it sure as hell isn't Strongbow.

They sell pickled eggs, odd brands of crisps and have their bar stocked with spirits named strange things like Aunt Annie's Vodka or Ye Olde Whiskey. For the life of me I just don't get it. Sure it gives off that traditional English vibe, sure the drinks are cheaper, but when I finally clock off work for the day and want to drown my Barista sorrows in a drink, I'd like to be able to recognize the brand of vodka in it. (Even if this means I have to go to the Slug & Lettuce just around the corner.)

I spent an hour or so with a couple of my (cheap) coworkers after we closed up shop on Friday evening. We sat outside as not to offend the masses with our burnt espresso stench, and burned through a pack of ciggies while discussing our hideous manager. I had just launched into my tirade about a miserable twat she was for not giving me this upcoming bank holiday weekend off, when, suddenly, I spotted my ex. (As you do on when you're having a horrible Friday night and are looking like shit.)

Yes, that ex. He who I moved to London for. He who asked me to do something rather unsavoury with a plate of mash and a tub of Marmite. He who was now standing there with his fat little arm draped around some dreadful looking tart who was wearing an Avril Lavinge 2001 World Tour T-shirt. (Seriously.)

I very carefully mouthed, "MY! EX! HAVE! TO! GO!!!" to my coworkers and tried desperately to climb out of my seat without moving around too quickly or letting him see me. I had just about twisted myself around and leaped over the back of my seat when I realized a little too late that the strap of my handbag was still intertwined in my chair.

It crashed. It banged. It made that horrible screeching sound as I tried to drag it around the corner with me.

As I tried desperately to hold my cigarette in my mouth and untangle myself without looking up at all of the drunk faces laughing at me, I heard Miss Avril Lavinge spit out, "Oh MY GOD! Isn't that your ex Coffee Shop Girlfriend!"

Let's just say that I died. And then ran. And then got home and let my IT roommates get me really drunk on Jäger and Redbull.

And I think I may have tried to kiss one of them.

Even worse...I think I liked it.