(A pub. A grumpy old local sits alone by the bar. Jim Reeves' "He'll Have to Go" is heard in the background. An athletic Frenchman enters.)
Greengrass: Alright, O? The usual?
Greengrass: Pint of Guinness, pint of Murphy's Ingrid! (To Offside)
Offside: Yeah. How was your weekend?
Greengrass: Fair to middling. Left town to avoid having to go to the pub and watch England. Had a barbecue, but our neighbour kept nipping off to check the latest non-score on his telly. The only sport apart from that was with Mrs. G.: trying to look busy while actually doing nothing. You know - squinting at the house, taking measurements, noting things down, muttering. And you?
Offside: Much the same. Slept in so I wouldn't have to watch the France game. I hear it wasn't pretty. Otherwise, a spot of blogging while pretending to be working on that translation with the really tight deadline. It's easy enough, I just have to be quick with the Alt-Tab keys if Mrs Offside watches over my shoulder.
(Ingrid sets two pints of the black stuff in front of them. Offside inspects his. There is a little shamrock drawn in the creamy white head.)
Offside: Thanks, Ingrid. Very thoughtful of you.
(Offside turns around and rolls his eyes at Greengrass, as if to say "that's a bit tacky, though".)
Offside: Cheers (They take a sip, Offside looks towards the door) Are we expecting anyone?