Last night I went for a drink with a new friend of mine. Neither of us fancied a big night, just a chance to chat and quietly mull things over with a pint of something well brewed.

And so to the Hobgoblin in Reading, a favourite haunt of each of us it turned out, where real ale doth flow and wooden panelled booths and nooks reign supreme. Here's the view from my favourite two-and-a-half seater booth...

(Photo courtesy of Beer in the Evening.)

Cosy, huh?

In the heart of town, this little place is a gem - what, if you weren't struck by the fact that it completely defies the need for pretentious categorisations, you might venture to say is the ultimate 'character pub'. Certainly, it's got more than a full measure of character. And characters aplenty, too...

We managed to bag the favoured booth, and when the time came to refuel, I was sure to guard our spot. After a few, quiet moments, the head of a lady appeared at the opening.

"Are you alone?", she asked, eyeing the recently vacated seat. I apologised, and told her I wasn't.

She ventured further. "Oh... Are you with... a woman?", she whispered, now eyeing the empty half-seat next to me. "Only, I'd really wanted to sit quietly in a booth and drink my beer - but I wouldn't want to intrude on anything... intimate."

One of life's wonderful situations that ought to be easier to explain than it actually turns out to be, I confirmed that no, I was not with a woman but that...

"Would you mind if I shared you?" she pleaded. "I'd be no trouble - I'll just read my book, and maybe eavesdrop on your laddish chat."

Utterly charmed, I couldn't resist.

And so when my friend returned from the bar, our evening had gained a middle-aged woman from Durham, half a pint of mild, and her book. I fumbled an introduction, and we continued to make "laddish chat".

Soon, the woman joined in, and proved to be terrific company. It turned out to be her Birthday (that old line, but it actually was!), and she'd called in at the pub on her way back from seeing her son. She'd wanted some company and, let's face it, if the Hobgoblin can't provide that, then where can?

Highlights included the moment she pulled a brand new DVD copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being from her bag, complete with erotic cover, and explained how she couldn't wait to watch it. We were assured that, like the young vendor who'd surreptitiously passed it to her under the counter, we had probably got completely the wrong idea about what sort of film it was. (Looking at a summary, it turns out we probably had.)

An hour or so later, after much mirth, she was on her way, and we were both genuinely pleased that she'd touched our evening. This is exactly why we should love our real community pubs, and go to them as often as we possibly can. It's certainly one of the reasons why I do.

Next week, Simon's coming over to mine for a drink. I'll be setting a third place at the table, just in case.