Charles looked round the bar. Everything reminded him of the Old Rose Inn he used to frequent as a student. The domino players; the old ladies with their after-shopping bottle of Guinness, the barman silently polishing the pint glasses; nothing out of the ordinary; but … “It’s a dream.” Charles said. “And what makes you think that?” asked the barman. Charles held out his right hand; “look,” he said, “no sign of arthritis.” “Should there be?” “Yesterday,” Charles remarked, “was my birthday; I was 104. Creaking, rattling, cursing the arthritis for my twisted fingers and generally boring everyone stiff with too many reminicences. When they’d all gone home I had my usual glass of whisky, went to bed and to sleep.” “And?” prompted the barman. “And woke just now to find myself here and a lot bloody younger than 104!” “So you reckon you are actually dreaming all this?” “No other possibility.” “Well, dream or no dream, are you here for your usual pint or two?” “Bitter, please.” The barman reached out and pulled the beer, placed it on the counter in front of Charles. He waited. Charles took a sip of the beer; “that’s better than usual,” he commented. “Thanks for that kind remark,” sniffed the barman. “No, I mean it – it’s just that so often it hits a sourish layer – caused by all the traffic outside.” “Well, how about paying for it, then?” Charles reached into his left jacket pocket for the wallet with his credit cards – it wasn’t there; but there were coins in his pocket, coins he hadn’t seen for many years, coins from his student days before the Government had mucked up the currency. So is the price in this dream still what it was all those years ago? He handed a florin to the barman, who took it, rang up 1s8d on the till and handed him 4d change. “Now,” said the barman, “just consider – if this is not all just a dream – and your pint tastes as real as that two-bob-bit felt – then how do you account for your being here?” “Time travel?” Charles ventured, enjoying his pint. “You’re not Doctor Who, though.” “Tell you what,” Charles said, “there’s one thing missing – I can’t hear any traffic.” “Perhaps there isn’t any.” “There’s always traffic along this stretch,” laughed Charles, “at every time of day!” And yet, when he looked, there was none. But there were the tramlines; so why? The trams were discarded when he was still at school. “You liked trams?” asked the barman. “Yes.” “So the tramlines and trams are part of your happy memories?” “This doesn’t make any sense. “Ah now,” sighed the barman, “it makes perfect sense if this world you are now in forms part of that happy world you remember. And which, in your long life, you left behind you.” “In my long life? That seems to imply I’ve left it for good – that I’m in some way, dead?” The barman gazed solemly at him for a long time before replying. “What did you think would happen to you after you died? Live in a cloud singing hymns? Stoking the fires and stirring the vats of boiling sulphur? Or just nothingness for ever and ever?” “Never thought much about it; though I used to say that if there were no cats in heaven I wasn’t going; the local vicar wasn’t very amused by that remark.” “And yet, deep down, you formed a little picture of a world where you were happy, where you’d like to be if only to get away from all the hassle of old age and the tiresome world you found yourself in. In a way that would be your heaven, wouldn’t it?” Outside Charles could hear a tram passing. “Welcome, Charles, to Heaven. Everyone gets his or her own version. Finish your pint, and then go and explore your new eternal life. There are friends out there. And cats.” This is crazy, Charles thought. “Oh, and while you’re at it,” added the barman, “go and see God now you’re here; he would like to see you.” “And just where do I find Him?” The barman raised an eyebrow. “Just where you expect to find Him; in His study, of course. You know the way – up Telegraph Hill to your old school.”