Gin, Fizz & Tonic

Revelations

Mother Mackie's is tucked away down a cobbled alleyway off Byres Road. It is a favourite hangout with students and those who want to cling onto their student days and pretend they don't have grown-up responsibilities.

I love it, or perhaps used to love it is a more accurate statement. Its real name is The Flora MacDonald Arms, named after the woman who provided Bonnie Prince Charlie with her maid's garments so he could flee the Duke of Cumberland's troops; Mother Mackie is a typical Glaswegian abbreviation of formal names to something more down to earth.

The outside is a traditional Tudor-style façade with dark wooden beams, leaded windows and a small entry door, oak barrels doubling up as tables outside, with the name emblazoned on a sign over an image of a young woman in a tartan shawl pulled low enough to display a substantial cleavage.

Inside, it is all low ceilings, wooden panelling, a fireplace and the occasional Gaelic singer or band. Zander is ensconced at the table closest to the fire. As the door closes behind me, he glances up.

"Ginny!" He flings open his arms, narrowly avoiding sending a half-full pint glass flying. His companions are likely his work colleagues, one of whom I recognise as the woman Bella identified who constantly likes and comments on his Instagram posts, and the other who I don't.

Inebriation can be classified into seven stages:

1. Smiley and chilled

2. Merry but with it, finding every tiny thing hilarious—not least your own jokes

3. Tipsy but with it, despite the fact the volume control on your voice is suddenly broken and everything you say is ten times louder than normal

4. Repeating yourself and telling everyone how much you love them

5. Crying/slurring your words

6. Falling over

7. Passing out.

Zander is at number four, I can tell, even from several metres away. "A drink for my oldest and dearest friend!" his voice booms out, and a young woman, her ears multiply pierced, and hair dyed bright green, stops mopping up a nearby table and drifts over to me.

"Whaddya want?" Her top lip curls.

A Diet Coke, I reply. In my head.

"Prosecco, please."

"Wee bottle or a big yin? The wee bottle works out about ten times the cost o' the big yin."

Wee bottle, please, the response in my head. "A big one, please, and can you bring it over with four glasses?"

She nods and presses her lips together. Like someone who knows the person requesting the extra glasses is merely doing so for show and will most likely drink the entire bottle by herself.

I pay her and make my way over to Zander's table, the wooden floor sticky beneath my feet.

The quantity of empty glasses and beer bottles on the table demonstrates how long Zander and his companions have been here. The woman, who he introduces as Courtney and the 'best, best, no, the greatest, graphic designer in Scotland, if not the UK, possibly the world', flashes me a glassy smile.

"Ha... ha... llllloooo. Nigh-sh to meet yooooo, Ginnnzeeee," she murmurs, before collapsing back in her chair, mouth open as she stares at the ceiling, her long silky black hair dangling down the back of her chair.

The poor soul has probably tried to keep pace with Zander and is now paying the price. She will have consumed half the amount of drink but is near to stage seven because her liver has not been put through the Olympic-level training that Zander's has. When the server returns with my bottle of Prosecco, I scoop some of the chilled water from the ice bucket into an empty pint glass and advise Courtney she should stick to that from now on.