Clarity did not come from a hard day at the office, nor did it come from a bracing open air walk or from seeing his family locked in a loving embrace. Instead clarity came from the drained pint class. It came from the empty pint glass that clanked down onto the wooden bar as the bell rang ready for a lock-in. It came to him in the pub, rising above the roar of the regulars, above the awful impressions on the microphone, above the blare of a population letting of a weeks worth of pent-up steam. It was at this point that clarity put aside all thought and all distractions and came to him in the form of a clear mind. It blazed for a singular moment only to be lost in the haze of the alcohol a second later. He could only grasp at the tendrils of the thought the next day, but he knew that the ritual would be repeated the next week.