Aziraphale is barely cognizant of her apparent restlessness, her constant motion, the way she shifts unevenly between postures radially different from what another. All he retains from it is a vague sense that something is wrong, that there is something boiling beneath a surface he's not altogether aware of. He glances at her and lets his focus rest, curious, trying to suss out what he's picking up.

"Well, it's fairly ordinary," he says. "Apart from us. There are several persons you'd do well to avoid. And there's... the network. You have a phone?"

He hesitates. "Or did you mean about the pub?"