After a delightful meal at Nutmeg, Fauzy, Maddie, Chris, and I head down the road to 22 Clifton, a bar which - much like Nutmeg - was clearly always about three doors down from my flat in fourth year and yet still somehow I never went. I admit that I don’t particularly get the full experience of a cocktail bar what with once again doing Dry January, but we make do. I decide to have that classic, a Shirley Temple (first enjoyed, as is an oddly well-preserved memory, at age 11 at my friend Joe’s bar mitzvah) which, fair play to them, tastes pretty good, but also fair play to the Shirley Temple, I feel like it’s hard to make grenadine and lemonade not taste good. The others’ drinks all look pretty good as well, so whilst I’m not missing out, I’m also reasonably confident that I wouldn’t be wasting my time trying to go back at some point. It’s a basement in Clifton which means that there is of course absolutely no phone signal, and we have a lot of fun interrogating the wireless charging point on the table. That’s a bunch of engineers for you, though, I suppose.