The art of falling in love

A friend's classy new job at an address like Express Towers, Nariman Point signals a perfect opportunity to down pitchers of draught beer on a balmy Sunday early evening at Quench, a place that wud be far outside the reaches of my own humble shallow pocket.

But what I find most impressive is not the cutesy clever decor but this emblazoned near the entrance, a charming tragicomic poem, by WB Yeats no less.

A Drinking Song

Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That's all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh.

Now, I wonder if this is to encourage Eurodecadent present-day Devdas-wannabes or if it was written with reference to the unbelievably cute-but-interesting male eye candy on view, as Brunch delightfully informs us.

Either way, I like being this way. Not even close to drunk, but happily buzzing. Ah, Yeats, friends and draught beer. What more can one ask from life on a Sunday?