GO into any pub near a station in central London and you normally enter a nightmare of untidily suspended lives of people who are waiting for something to turn up, have just missed their train or are con artists or pickpockets set on relieving you of your possessions.

Given the reputation of Walthamstow Central Station, where WAGN seems to have abandoned all responsibility for managing the place as soon as it gets dark, you might expect the Goose to be a no-go area.

But I was pleasantly surprised. The no-hopers, time wasters and irate don't seem to frequent the place.

The last time I visited the pub must have been some 20 years ago, when it had a huge Disney-like bust of what I took to be a First World War German general surveying Hoe Street from the first floor.

In those days it was called Flanagan's, and it was later shortened to the Tower. A further name change to the Goose and Granite led to the present Goose.

This is a big pub, and it gives the impression that it has room for everyone with plenty of space between the tables with their fake marble tops and the choice to go up a level and sit looking down on the bar.

There is an unimaginative but well kept range of real ale: Boddingtons, Tetley, Bass and Worthington.

The bar area is pretty impressive. It looks as if an ex-Army chap is in charge of the shelf stacking, with high-glittering columns of alco-pops all arranged according to their ghastly colours, rather reminiscent of a high-class grocers.

But the bar is a problem. One of my assistants is a bit on the short side. By standing on her toes (on the fake-tiled surround), she was just able to rest her nose on the cold marble bar top.

This, of course, meant we had to wait ages before she was noticed and got her round in.

When I went up to be served, I had to fault the delightful barmaids. First they ignored all the usual protocol of serving the person who has been waiting the longest first. Then they tended to serve women before men. Totally outrageous.

Still, they were very helpful. I had been meaning for ages to find out what 'shots' were. The western connotation led me to think of those tiny glasses winging their way along polished bars in response to "give us a shot, Elmer".

In fact, I wasn't far wrong. They are little doses of alcohol dyed in bright colours and sealed in miniature glasses with a yoghurt- type cap. Now I just need to figure out whether you drink them or inject them.