I like Trof, I really do. I like all three of them, actually, but especially the one in Fallowfield as it's just near the Loop and handy when on a thirsty bike ride. I like that one in particular because it has its own-brand cider and lager, both of which are good and cheap, and it's all small and, er, intimate. I also like the whole thing going on with the "quirky decor" (as they would say in the old-fashioned press) and the funny little drawings with speech bubbles on the menus and the fact that the people who go in there don't mind in the slightest acting a bit weird, like using plastic cutlery they brought with them or talking into a mobile phone as if it were a tricorder (do you think that should take a cap - is it a trademark in the imaginary future?).
So I was in Trof Fallowfield, self-proclaimed "eating and drinking palace" (I remember when it was a really crummy second-hand bike shop), just having "the one" (which - whaddya know? - before long became "the four"), and, while I was waiting at the bar for my drinks to be poured, noticed the cute little sign flagging up the tips jar. I can't remember the exact wording but it was saying something like: give us some money "and then later lets go dancing".
I know, I'm sorry, I can't help it - I got out my Biro (that, I know, is capped up) and drew on an apostrophe, just like that; as if I owned the place. It was in the same style (blobby) and colour (black) as the writing, mind: I'm all for style. The girl behind the bar looked at me, perhaps not surprisingly, accusingly. "Just making it grammatical," I said perkily. God, I'd not even touched the fizzy pop by then, either. Do I need to be put down before I turn into Lynne Truss or can I still be rehabilitated before I go too far?