We wind our way between the artificial lake and the darkening beach, round prosperous but bland streets. There are plenty of car park spots and our RAV4 has an entire puddly bay to itself. Given the winter solstice, sunset’s early.

Pushing through the door is always thrilling. Part pub, part party, part holiday accommodation. Claire and I glide through the venue like Henry and Karen navigating the Copacabana in Goodfellas. The Bartley of West Lakes is cavernous and utilitarian rather than a glitzy gangster nightspot.

Our search takes us through the sports bar, gaming, and yet another bar, before finally locating the lounge and its roaring fire. That’s better. Coats off, we claim a Chesterfield couch. We chat about the joys of wood fires.

Mine host is a bear who, despite the wintry chill, isn’t hibernating. He’s sauntering about in shorts, a blobby tattoo smeared across his right calf. He gently tells us we can’t stay by the fire — there’s a reserved sign. With meaty mitts, he shovels some logs into the wood burner, beams, and wobbles off.

SpongeBob is on one TV for the septuagenarians while another shows the VFL from Carrara. The Box Head Hill Hawks dim the Suns in front of a crowd seemingly smaller and more indifferent than the one here at the Bartley. Nobody’s interested in either offering.

Mine host grabs the mic and begins the raffle. ‘Green ticket. Number 56.’ The crowd murmurs and an elderly bloke shuffles up to claim his plate of chops. ‘Ah, it’s you Dave. Well done. Hope you like your meat tray.’

Every fifteen minutes there’s a juicy offering: meat, grog, grog, meat. Hugging their tickets like rosary beads, the punters concentrate as if it’s World Championship Bingo.

Claire has an espresso martini. It features Sheep Dog Jelly whiskey, vodka, and Kahlua. Mine host calls it an SDJ. SDJ sounds like a forgotten mid-century politician or a minor infectious disorder. I get a Pale Ale which, despite its ubiquity, can still stun with its fruity poise.

Beside us sits a table of women — grey of hair, stooped, nattering away, happy as pups. Right next to them is a matching table of men. Claire asks, ‘Do you reckon they’re all married to each other?’ I look over at the gender-segregated throngs. ‘There’s six at each, so you might be right.’ It looks routine and relaxed, and I wonder if this is such a terrible thing. Others could view it as melancholic surrender.

The Bartley and its happy hour raffle give their week a collective focal point.

As is our routine, we order hot chips. Mine host brings them over. The gravy is watery — haunted only by the ghost of flavour. Paul Kelly definitely didn’t make this batch. It’s thin and sorrowful.

Leaving, we pass the pool table where a young couple is gallantly attempting a night out with their toddlers. Nappy bag, shrill demands, pram ready to flee. We accelerate past them, and my eye catches a poster advertising a Paint ‘n’ Sip night coming up next month at the venue.

I’ll stick to Sip.