I am sitting in the Bulldog Pub next to three loud women in their mid-twenties, and I do my best not to notice them. My laptop in my lap, I am enjoying the wireless connection to the World Wide Web. A tall man in his mid-twenties with a large dog on a leash approaches the neighboring table at some point. He greets two of the women while the third starts petting the dog, which is delighted to see her. “Are we staying or leaving?” he asks. Before the woman occupied with the dog has a chance to answer, he smiles magnanimously: “The chief decides, of course!” The third woman laughs and starts getting up: “That’s a real man for you!” Quick goodbyes follow after many chuckles by the three women, and the couple with the dog leaves the pub at a leisurely pace. Just in time, too. Out of the blue, I feel like intervening, but I am not quick enough. Actually, I am too angry for words. A real man, my ass.