It may not yet be one o'clock in the afternoon, but Simon tells himself that being drunk on cider and cheap lager in a seedy pub on a Wednesday is his right as an Englishman.

Anything to make himself feel less like a failure.

He looks up from his drink long enough to order another (and a plate of chips because he can't remember the last time he ate solid food) when he spots a familiar face.

"Lancelot!" he calls a little too loudly. "Brilliant. You can buy me another drink. Then we'll be even."