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'Tis Sunday, and the crow croaks 3pm. What a pain is here! Devils in lead boots stompest upon my brain! My stomach churnest with deep groans! And my teeth hurt. Hood, a pleasure-crazed urchin who has offered me emotional and chemical comfort since the departure of my belov-ed Nancy, sways at my side. After a lost night of thudding, jiggling and ingesting, my wrack-ed body craves a dark spot to bingest most foully.

Owing to Hood's penchant for Snap, we head to Club71. This artisticus place lurks in a back alley off Peel Street. 'T appears the opening hours are flexi – we are let in mid afternoon, and are the first of the day's suppers. I receiveth a knowing peruse from the bar maiden as I order two Bloody Marys, $59/$49HH (and eight Macallan 12yr whiskey chasers, $69/$53HH). Praise god, 'tis quiet and dim, the only sound the birds tweeting outside and my noble conscious crackling in the fires of hell.

Peasants laze outside on chairs of white plastic. Books and magazines adorn the walls, along with a nauseating, colourfulest mural. There hang guitars aplenty and scribbles from past drinkers. I lift my hand to write, but it is heavy with drink and grief. Drief. 

As the evening creepeth in, we ordereth some food from the plenteous take away menus, and I nibblest glumly on the fairest trade cookies ($28 for a hungest-over-sized pack). More revelers fillest the place, and before I know it, I'faith, our hedonisticus habits awaken, with Bloody Marys precursing ales, and whiskies and vodkies chasing keenly, as funkiest jazz plays.

Neediest for the affection robbed of me of late, I embraceth Hood at our cornerest table, my elbow slipping off the edge sporadically. "So what you doing out here, Humby?" he asks. I summon all my energies into forming a mental sentence and delivering the words in the correctest order through my mouth. "I have been… sent to… (hiccup!)… find the Fourteen Lost Nymphs.. (burp!)… of Aaria." 

"And how is that going for you?" he asks. “This ist the thingus… (burp!)... I have only found two! And lord knows… (hiccup!)… where the others b'est!” I laugh a bitter laugh (steady myself on the table). Asks Hood, "But where are they, Humby, the rest of the Nymphs? Where ARE they?" "Well... I knowest not, but we have … (pause to focus on following difficult pronunciation)… deciphered… that they all lie within taverns, or places with…(hiccup, giggle)… musicus… I luuv yuuuu… Hood…" slurrest I. “Drink up Humby,” quoth he, leaving me alone with my sorrow.

Club 71, Basement, 67 Hollywood Road, 2858 7071. Open from around 3pm – late.