Picture the scene.

You are a waitress. You've been in the job eight months.
Your manager Marie spends her breaks chain smoking often getting through 3 in quick succession whilst she broadcasts the minute details of her woeful life as if rehearsing for her sob-story performance that will propel her to the next stage of the X-Factor auditions. Whilst you hold a certain amount of disdain for Marie, so unwilling to make the changes to help herself, you admire her ability to keep mental score of those pulling their weight in the bar. This is something that comes into play with holiday requests and favourable rotas; Marie is nothing but fair and will not play favourites with the staff. Still Marie is not on shift tonight, so there has been little need to keep up the false smile and can-do attitude. It's a Wednesday, 9pm and it's been a slow night.

Too far from the suburbs to be thought of by anyone as a local yet not quite within the reach of the city to be an after-work haunt. A bar such as this doesn't have regulars instead relying on the whims of passers-by. Through the glass door pane you spot an older gentleman making his way into the bar. You look him over trying to anticipate his drink order. Ageing hippy, perhaps a biker. He has a long beard and is dressed in clothes that suggest comfort over style. A real ale drinker. You run through the guest ales in your head in anticipation of inquiry of flavour notes, alcohol percentages and a recommendation which will immediately be disregarded.

He orders a Baileys; every so often they throw you a curve ball. He asks for a tab to be set up. This isn't something that is usually done. Marie wouldn't go for it, but it's a quiet night and middle-aged alternative guys in your experience aren't the type to run out, particularly those ordering Baileys. You decide to go with it, maybe there'll be  tip in it for you. You casually watch him as he sets up in the far corner of the bar. With customers sparse sometimes all you have is people watching to pass the time. You try to work out his character. You were way off with your guess of his drink order and try to piece together the story that could somehow reconcile his appearance with his choice of drink. Bar staff, waitresses... is it really so different from psychologist. You ponder on this and discern that you are a people person, not because you're sociable but because you are interested in people.

The evening grinds on. You check your phone for messages, more for something to do than any expectation that there will be any. You lock your phone before it registers that you never noted the time and concede a sigh of defeat as you check again. 10:02. Hippy man has ordered two more drinks since he first entered. No-one else has joined him in this time. Stood-up for a date or was his intention to head here for a solitary drink? Is he escaping from something? After all drinking at home is a much cheaper alternative and he can hardly be here for the joviality of the empty bar. You continue to play detective, if only you could be debriefed after each shift and uncover how close to the truth you were.

It's as if your thoughts have probed too deep and become tangible, he seem conscious of your musings as he's looks over. You begin to feel ashamed at having being caught out before your rational mind kicks in and you realise he is simply catching your eye to settle up. Daydreaming is dangerous when you have an over-active imagination. He approaches the bar and hands over his card to pay. You notice the name on the card, Bill Bailey, and his face forms an image of familiarity as you suddenly recognise his face from tv panel shows. The transaction goes through and you pull the printed paper from the till. You smile somewhat sheepishly and then hand over the receipt for Bill Bailey's baileys bill.