The Glasshouse is notable in my life for two particular, connected firsts. For starters, it's the local of the first man I've ever met who was a murderer, as evidenced by the fact I overheard him say he'd got out of a life sentence. Secondly, it's the local of the first murderer who ever shouted across the room asking me what a cockatiel was. What a whimsical place.
To be fair, the Glasshouse is a scruffily pleasant pub. Sure the locals are all mad, the toilets smell like a camping site shower-block and the CD will skip more than a small girl with some rope but I liked it. Maybe it had something to do with the flurry of mirrors lining every wall, making the place seem enormous and giving me plenty of opportunities to flirt with my reflection. read more