You stride back to the table with the second round, making sure you appear cool and confident and aloof and devil-may-care all at once, and arching your back slightly so your bum and chest stick out, in opposite directions, as if each were being pulled by two threads held by sparring scotsmen engaged in a tug of war. The second round’s usually a given, unless they’re really horrible, or weird, or at least 50% older than their pictures. The third round, and anything after that, is to be won. You set the two pints down, and as you do he quickly slides a cardboard coaster under each. ‘Smooth,’ you say.  He smiles at your comment, and then takes the two empty glasses and swings them round onto the next table, which is piled up with used plates and screwed-up napkins and is waiting to be cleared. And as he does so you notice that he has a single red button sewn into the sleeve of his navy blue shirt. All the others are navy blue. A normal colour for a navy blue shirt. “Why the red button?” you ask. “Well…  it’s a red button. Could be for interactive content. Or it could be self-destruct. Wanna push it?”