Walking into the tavern, Cochrane took a seat in the far corner. Tossing his hat on the table, he sat back with his hands behind his head and put his boots on the table. It was bad manners, but his day wasn't going very well, so he cared little.
Damn air docking personnel. First the paperwork conveniently goes missing and then the airhook just so happens to not be compatible with the Aurora's winch system? Bloody heaps of costly bullflop. That's what it was. Now he had to keep his 110 gun 275 ft. (300 ft. overall) 5,500 ton ship grounded until his mooring system was rebuilt and the paperwork was filed. And boy, was it going to cost him a pretty shiny tuppence. It was enough to make a person heave. But at least the day was done. How much ill-fate could a pint and a quiet tavern bring?
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