So I get to thinking: what do other bloggers think about Talk To Her, the spiffing new Almodovar movie (of which more below)?

So I do a Google search: "talk to her" almodovar blog.

And just three results come up. And two of them are for blogs which are already on my sidebar: Dave and Sasha.

Clearly, I am keeping The Right Company.

It's just nine days old, and already a new blog has me hooked by the short and curlies. Embra Nights is one of those increasingly prevalent narrative works, which demand that you start at the bottom and work your way back up, and which tantalisingly blur the line between fact and fiction. Gripping, eloquent stuff. And I know something that you don't.

But if you have entered, then read this. Sobering stuff, from someone who knows what she's talking about.

Stuart posted a piece about the steady rise of "alt.country" music, and wondered where it all came from in the first place. Cue an extended ramble in his comments box from li'l ol' me. Burble burble Gram Parsons burble burble Jeff Tweedy burble burble Ryan Adams...once I get started I can't stop, that's my trouble.

The same piece also touches on people's propensity for Mildly Ironic Capitalisation. This happens to be one of my Trademark Stylistic Tics, along with starting sentences with conjunctions, using conversational interjections at the beginnings and ends of sentences, and excessive use of adverbs such as really, clearly and strangely.

Oh yes, I really do. But it's strangely addictive, you see? And I clearly have no intention of Calling A Halt just yet.

As I’m already something of an Almodovar fan, I was happy to discover that his latest flick, Talk To Her, doesn’t disappoint in any way. Without wishing to give any plot details away whatsoever, I guess I can safely tell you that he’s up to his usual trick of presenting the utterly perverse as if it were relatively normal, or mildly eccentric at worst. The viewer keeps getting caught out by the emotional truth of the screenplay – lulled into accepting what is taking place, then suddenly being brought up short with a spasm of shock (“What was I thinking? This is terrible behaviour!”)

Maybe the key to accepting Almodovar’s films lies in treating them not as representations of everyday reality, but not as out-and-out tales of cartoonish excess either. In a way, they’re symbolic stories. By describing extreme characters and situations, they manage to illuminate recognisable emotional truths, which chime uncomfortably closely. You understand the underlying motivations. You can almost accept, and almost forgive. But not quite.

One more thing: the actor playing Marco is bloody gorgeous.

---

In the Broadway cinema bar afterwards – a civilised place, with pleasantly muted lighting, a striking photography display on the walls, and several Belgian beers on tap – the three of us are still quietly discussing the film, and Almodovar’s work in general, when the clock strikes eleven.

WHERE’S! YOUR! HEAD! AT! (Wezyoheddat? Wezyoheddat?)
WHERE’S! YOUR! HEAD! AT! (Wezyoheddat? Wezyoheddat?)

Suddenly, Basement Jaxx’s Rooty album comes crashing through the speakers at top volume. It’s chucking out time. Can-I-have-yer-glasses-now-please? One of the bar staff is jigging around behind the counter, looking out at the punters and grinning maliciously at everyone’s visible discomfort.

It's a great album – when you’re doing the ironing, or tidying the kitchen, or getting ready to go out, or stomping round the city centre with your headphones on. But not right here, right now, please. I've got my sensitive intellectual hat on, and I don't get to wear it very often in public these days.

Oh well. Back home to watch Rhona get chucked out.
Yes, of course I bloody am. Hadn't you guessed?

It’s a long drive in the minibus from Hué to Hoi An. Luckily, the scenery is spectacular, as we trundle through the mountains, catching glimpses of the ocean. I’m still trying to plough through White Teeth, but there are too many competing distractions going on outside the window.

There are also plenty of stops along the way. At Danang, a museum full of mad Hindu stone sculptures: rampant dragons, elephant deities, multi-bosomed goddesses, and more phallic symbols than you could shake a stick at. At lunchtime, a quiet, vast, unspoilt beach (unfortunately, K and I are not Beach People, so we bury ourselves under a parasol and try not to snarl too obviously). Mid-afternoon, the Marble Mountains: a spectacular network of mist-laden caves, Buddhist temples and slippery tunnels.

The Marble Mountains are also home to the most aggressively persistent sellers of marble goods on the planet. As soon as we get off the bus, we are engulfed by a swarm of young women, one for each member of the group. “What’s your name?” “Marble, you want to buy?” “OK, maybe later! Maybe later!”

All the street sellers say this in Vietnam. Maybe later! Maybe later! Then, when they see you again (and they always see you again), the words are thrown back in your face. You said later! You promised! It’s all very playful, though – very good-natured, always with a smile on the face, and people will take No for an answer. Compared to the seriously irksome street hassles we endured in Egypt, it’s a breeze.

However, the Marble Ladies are a breed apart. As we exit the Marble Mountain complex, which is a good 20 minutes’ walk from the entrance, there they all are, waiting for us. Each one of them has remembered the name of their prey. Mike! Mike! Over here! You buy! You buy! You said Maybe Later! You promised! Again, we are surrounded. The Marble Ladies are grabbing and pulling at us, or slapping our arms (hard) for added emphasis. Keep smiling. Don’t get riled. It’s all a game.

It has been observed throughout the group that I consistently seem to be getting proportionally less street hassle than anyone else. People ask me to share the secret of my success. I pause to consider. Well – I never make prior eye contact with the vendor, and I never look at the goods for sale. If approached, I say “No thank you”, just once, politely but firmly. As I do so, I make direct eye contact with the vendor. At the same time, I give them my broadest, most open smile, while slowly shaking my head through about 90 degrees, and slowly raising my right hand in a kind of “stop the traffic” gesture. It seems to work, every time. I am asked to demonstrate my technique to the group. Maybe this will work for them – or maybe it’s just because the vendors all have excellent emotional intelligence, and have recognised me for the curmudgeonly, tight-fisted old git that I truly am.

Having said all this – of course I buy the occasional trinket, or set of postcards, along the way. You have to. People’s livelihoods depend on stuff like this. However, I’m a hopeless haggler. I just can’t play the game. People see through me in an instant. I resign myself to paying over the odds, and remind myself that this is still an outrageously low sum.

K and I have lucked out in Hoi An. While some of the group are consigned to cramped, noisy, airless basement cells, we languish in our very own mini-suite, with polished panelling and heavy traditional furniture, all in rich dark woods. Perhaps, in retrospect, we shouldn’t have mentioned this to the rest of the group…

Hoi An is the prettiest town in Vietnam, its well preserved 17th and 18th century buildings fairly dripping with old world charm. However, it is clearly changing fast. The main streets of the old town are largely given over to tourist shops and restaurants, and there are Australian backpackers everywhere. This hasn’t spoilt the intrinsic beauty of the town just yet – but I don’t have a particularly good feeling about the future.

In the evening, in a simple looking establishment on the waterfront, we enjoy our best meal of the entire trip. None of the meals we have eaten so far have been anything less than excellent, but this place scales new heights. Excuse me while I plug it: Hong Phuc, 86 Bach Dang St. Tel. 0510 862567. E-mail: hongphuc1990@yahoo.com.au. The tiny little scallops are particularly spectacular.

We round off the evening in Tam Tam, a wildly popular French-run backpacker bar which plays fabulous jazz-funk and French reggae. Oh look! Over there, in the corner! Fraulein Dings-Bums! Enchanté!

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam

There’s a gay German couple in the hotel breakfast room. One of them clocks me and K, and immediately starts trying to transmit the Secret Gay Signal. At breakfast? I ask you. How wearing!

K and I have several comedy alter-egos. One of our favourites: the two jaded Northern queens.
- Just look at ‘er! Madam in the check shirt and glasses!
- She’s a one, int’ she? Radar Eyes, or what?
- She’s never off duty, is that one.
- Well, she’s not fookin gerrin’ any, that’s for sure.
- Too right she’s fookin not!
- Don’t look, you’ll only encourage her.

Around our group, the rice wine hangovers are kicking in, big time. None of us had factored in the sheer strength of the brew – although in retrospect, the fact that it was poured out from a plastic water bottle might have been some sort of clue.

As a result, we are not in the best condition for a lengthy morning tour of the Hué Citadel, with one of those earnest local guides who insist on giving you the precise facts and figures for everything. We are a shockingly reluctant and inattentive group, almost to the point of embarrassment (“Poor man! What must he think of us all!”).

Right in the middle of the Citadel complex, we come to the Forbidden City. Modelled on its Beijing equivalent, this sumptuous palace used to house the emperors of Vietnam. In what is known locally as “The American War”, 95% of the Forbidden City was destroyed by the US forces in the aftermath of the Tet Offensive in 1968. It is a shocking discovery.

The Citadel complex has now been designated a UNESCO world heritage site, and there are plans to rebuild the Forbidden City in its entirety. In the meantime, rice and vegetables are being farmed on the waste ground. This sticks in my mind as one of the best metaphors for the character of the nation:
Tragedy. Beautiful, historic buildings are destroyed in a bloody conflict.
Stoicism. The Vietnamese shrug their shoulders, and set about rebuilding them from scratch.
Practicality. But in the meantime, as there’s no point in letting perfectly good land go to waste, they’ll grow rice and vegetables.

At the Tu Duc mausoleum, we spot the German couple again. The one in the glasses clocks us, and immediately recommences transmission.
- I’ve got a name for her now.
- What’s that then?
- It’s German for Miss Thing.
- What’s that then?
- Fraulein Dings-Bums.
- Love it...

In the afternoon, my absolute highlight of the entire trip. Mr. Hoài has arranged a motorbike trip for the whole group, through the fields and villages surrounding Hué. I’ve never been on the back of a motorbike before, so there is an element of overcoming fear to be factored into the experience – this only serves to heighten the sense of exhilaration. Our drivers weave us in and out of the city traffic, and out into the villages, where kids line the roads, shouting Hello at us and high-fiving us as we scoot past. We are seeing Vietnamese life as it really is. I am ecstatic with delight.

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam

Is the second series of Six Feet Under going to be as outstandingly brilliant as the first? Or will it just be a pale echo of the first series, made on the back of its success, which will taint my memories of the first series? I need to know, and so do my friends. Please advise!

Item 41. Random House - Blue Ice (1996)

Two tracks which reflect last weekend, in very different ways. First off is this collaboration between two Nottingham based musicians, both of whom were at our old friend D's 40th birthday garden party on Saturday.

Charles Webster has been putting out fantastic deep house records for years, under a variety of names (most notably Presence, and Love From San Francisco). His current downtempo album Born On The 24th Of July is, along with The Gotan Project's La Revancha Del Tango, probably my most played CD of 2002 thus far.

Paul K. Joyce is probably best known for his work for children's television, and is currently recording one of his orchestral compositions with the Royal Philharmonic. He wrote the best selling single of 2000 (Bob The Builder's Can We Fix It?) and has put together the music for the forthcoming pre-school kids' TV series The Fimbles (as Chig said: Fimbo, Florrie and Baby Pom; they're gonna be huge!)

Taken from Random House's only release - a 3-track 12" EP from 1996 - Blue Ice is deep house done just the way I like it. The track kicks in properly at around the 1:17 mark, hits its groove, and stays there until around 6:20, when strange things start to happen. By 6:51, things have gone very peculiar indeed. This is where all the deep house purists exchange concerned looks and stare over at the DJ booth in confusion, while the more open-minded folk simply go with the flow. It's something of a deliberate wind-up: Charles is a club DJ as well as a musician, and he once told me how he enjoyed witnessing this reaction on his dancefloors.

Note - as my server space has a maximum of file size limit of 10mb, you'll only get 9:24 out of the full 10:27 track. However, the final minute is just a wind-down of the main elements, for mixing purposes, so you've not missed anything too critical. Besides which, I just couldn't be bothered to re-sample at 96!

Item 42. The Handsome Family - Sunday Morning Coming Down (2002)

I first played this on Sunday morning (coming down, big time!), and it matched my mood more or less perfectly. Written by Kris Kristofferson, best known as performed by Johnny Cash, and now given the full lugubrious alt.country treatment by The Handsome Family. It's taken from their new "odds and sods" album Smothered And Covered, which is only available from their official website. The lyrics are available here.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

I'm feeling mostly cranky and vacant today, in a way which is not at all conducive to effective wordsmithery. Actually, scratch "vacant" - I feel absent. Absent from my immediate surroundings, absent from the cut and thrust of life. Maybe this is just a case of delayed après-holiday mojo-loss; from Bloggorhea to Blogstipation.

So, in lieu of my own words, let me direct you instead to some recent offerings from my fellow citizens. A mixed bag to put it mildly, but then you should be used to that if you're a regular round here.

1. The Fifty Number Ones Project – Chig wants you to vote for your favourite UK Number One singles of all time. My kind of project, if ever there was one. You can even win a prize!
(as Chig's permalinks seem a bit funny, go to the entry for September 4th)

Update: I've now created a simple Excel spreadsheet, containing a full list of all the UK Number One singles from 1952 to the present day.

2. The “Not The Best Weblog” Project – Tom really, really, really won’t let it lie.
(I first thought "No", then I thought "Yes", then I got really confused and put it to the vote for a laugh, and duly entered, and concluded that none of it really mattered much anyway, except now I'm shitting myself at the possibility that I might actually win the bloody thing, and I kind of wish I'd never entered, and yet I'm still madly curious to find out who wins. Good job those copyright-busting MP3s will automatically exclude me, eh?)

3. My Chain – Jonathan calls a cheeky beggar’s bluff.

4. “It’s like being wrapped in the biggest, strongest arms imaginable and gently rocked to sleep, while someone rubs you all over with mink cushions.” – Dave whips himself up into a frenzy over the new album from…honestly, you’ll never guess in a million years.

5. “The high school is a frozen tableau of adolescence, timeless and unchanging. For better or for worse, there will always be jocks and nerds and choir geeks and cheerleader bimbi, locked into the same familiar social patterns we once navigated when we were that age." - from the distance of adulthood, Peter at Secret Kings observes his local high school kids at the start of the new academic year.

Now then. I do feel slightly funny making direct links to these last two, given their subject matter - but then, I do think that they're both well worth reading.

6. Wreaths, fags and booze – Adrian wryly observes his grandmother’s funeral. (Which reminds me: Must Get E4 Access By Next Monday.)

7. Sitting across from my father 24 hours before he will die – a poem by Barbara (although she subsequently questions whether or not it truly counts as a poem). Simple, direct and affecting. Highly personal, but with a universal resonance.

Via Gina Snowdoll, an official retraction of the recent "Pete Burns goes loopy and gets sectioned" stories that have recently appeared on Popbitch. Names are named, and phone numbers given. You cross this man at your peril!

However, here are some late entries:

Is Nanci Griffith the bitch she seemed in concert this past Sunday?
Shirtless Gay Studs Ironing.
And zillions and zillions for Serena Williams in that dress. Obviously.

It’s a long drive from Hanoi to Halong Bay and back, but the boat trip proves to be well worth it. We slowly weave our way round countless rocky islands; they are tall and steep, lush and verdant, dramatic and other-worldly. Sizeable portions of the film Indochine were shot out here, particularly on Dau Go (“Dragon Island”).

The heavy rain has stopped just in time, and the sun makes one of its very rare showings (the two weeks are mostly spent underneath a cloudy sky, for which I am most grateful; I’m hot enough as it is, and have no wish to slather myself in protective gunk). We sit on the top deck and zone out, gazing into the middle distance with dippy smiles on our faces.

The two caves on Dau Go are cavernous and spectacular, with stalactites and stalagmites a-go-go. The first cave is illuminated with cheesy coloured lighting (which only I seem to like), and is packed with gawping boat trippers. The second cave is naturally lit, much emptier, every bit as dramatic, and much more atmospheric. Inside the second cave, K snaps away for all he’s worth; meanwhile, I have decided to leave my digicam in the suitcase until the last night. He creates “visual essays” on top quality slide film – I do cheerful point ‘n snap people shots, when we’ve all had a drink or two. I call this “complementary skills”.

The overnight sleeper train from Hanoi to Hué starts off as a giggle, and ends up as an ordeal. It’s a giggle while we’re drinking beer and playing cards; it’s an ordeal when we realise that the air conditioning in our compartment is malfunctioning. Through the night, the compartment grows progressively hotter and stickier. On the top bunks, where it’s marginally cooler, Brad Pitt and I manage to doze fitfully, after a fashion. On the lower bunks, where it’s roasting, K and Jennifer Lopez get no sleep whatsoever.

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam

The bloody awful Vietpop music starts blaring through the carriage at 6am, an hour and twenty minutes before we reach our destination. The music is so loud that it’s distorting through the speakers. There are very few things which I dislike about this country, but the local pop music is one of them (along with the humidity, and the lack of soft cushions). Actually, most of it isn’t even “local” – it’s all made by ex-pats living in L.A., and re-imported via the likes of MTV Asia. Without this set-up, and with the bootleg CD trade as big as it is, none of the artists would ever get paid.

K and J-Lo are in foul moods. J-Lo mentions that she hasn’t slept all night. I make a tactical error and confess to having had a few hours’ kip. J-Lo snaps back: “Oh, stop bragging about it, would you?” Brenda Blethyn pops a cheery head round the door: “Good morning!”. K glares back at her. “F**k off!” Strange as it may sound, these two exchanges actually seal our respective friendships for the rest of the trip.

We all feel like we’ve been slowly basting ourselves in our own chip fat. We all feel disgusting. The washing facilities on the train are, naturally, rudimentary in the extreme. We cannot wait to get to the hotel in Hué.

It turns out that there’s a great little pavement café next door to the hotel, which becomes our regular hang-out for the next couple of days. Excuse me while I plug it: Hoài Café, 35 Hai Bà Trung, Tel: 054.830860. The perpetually cheerful and solicitous owner, Mr. Hoài, becomes everybody’s new friend. Once showered and changed, we congregate around a long table and breakfast on rice noodle soup.

It’s only Day 5, but I have already become completely addicted to rice noodle soup at breakfast time. Up until now, I have always found it difficult to face food for the first hour of every day – but rice noodle soup has got through to me where all other breakfast foodstuffs have failed. I could feast on it every day. Here is a golden business opportunity just waiting to happen back home: a chain of Vietnamese breakfast bars, all doing rice noodle soup. Someone should do it. With the right marketing, it could catch on, big time.

We take off on a cyclo tour of Hué, which is our tour leader’s favourite city in Vietnam. Cyclos are like rickshaws: you recline comfortably in front, shaded by a canopy, while your driver pedals you along the streets on a three wheeler. It’s the best way to see the city when you’re still feeling weary, and it’s wonderful to be part of the mad flow of traffic, down at street level. There are almost no cars here: just two-wheelers and cyclos. Hué is a gentler, simpler, more relaxed place than Hanoi; it still bears the more conservative, traditional feel of the North.

Squeezed into one cyclo, a young family group passes by in the other direction: father, mother and baby. They have the same quiet serenity which I have observed time and again over the past few days. They make such a lovely family that I find I cannot help but beam as they go by. The mother spots this, and catches my eye, and beams straight back at me. For a second or so, there is a complete communion between us, as our respective states of contentment become momentarily enmeshed. A few seconds later, in the midst of the traffic, an elaborately decorated coffin passes by, sitting on a cycle cart, on its way to be delivered somewhere. Birth and death, both gone in a flash.

There’s an afternoon boat trip down the “Perfumed River”. The boat is staffed by a young married couple, with a cheeky toddler in tow. Between the ages of around three and five, most Vietnamese children have the most delightfully strong characters: playfully bold and impish, you can’t help but love them. This kid is a prime example; everyone is taking his photo, and he’s loving the attention. As the boat sets sail, his older sister waves him goodbye from the shore. He doesn’t want to leave her. He starts crying, as toddlers tend to do. It doesn’t last long. However, his parents’ reaction is interesting, brief as it is (and easily missed): they look visibly embarrassed. Overt public displays of emotion do not take place in Vietnamese society, as they are seen as “losing face” – and this even applies to toddlers, it would seem. This isn’t self-repression; it’s self-control; a subtle but important difference. Thus by the age of around six, the vast majority of Vietnamese children are calm, well-behaved creatures, with sensible heads on their shoulders, busily making themselves useful. There is no sentimentality attached to childhood here. Nor are children afforded any special protection; they are streetwise from the moment they can walk (which is OK, because the streets here are safe and crime-free). This particular kid is happily running round all parts of the boat, with no fear on his part or on his parents’ part. He is trusted from the outset.

As we pass under one of the main bridges, teeming with traffic in both directions, I notice that only two people are crossing it on foot. A European or American couple, they look every inch the “independent travellers”. No cyclos for them at “tourist rip-off” rates (around 60p or 70p a journey, in fact); they look doggedly determined to trudge the streets of Hué by foot alone, through the heat and humidity. The man is half a dozen paces in front of the woman. They both look thoroughly miserable. They both notice our colourfully painted vessel passing below, and visibly frown at the “false”, “touristy” frivolity on display.

The Thien Mu pagoda, and its accompanying Buddhist monastery, and its surrounding formal gardens, are all exquisitely beautiful, in a naturally harmonious and un-showy way. K and I are both utterly captivated by the atmosphere of calm. K has one of his periodic “I want to be a monk!” moments, and our usual well-rehearsed comic banter ensues. Back in London, The Hempel hotel had boasted of a “Zen garden”. Compared to the real thing in front of us now, its clueless pretentiousness now lies completely exposed. We also make amused comparisons with the suburban “Zen garden” makeovers which are so beloved of British television programmes. However, this still does not stop us from snapping loads of detailed “inspiration shots”, ready for when we get back to Nottingham (our long neglected yards are in need some drastic re-planning).

In the evening, a celebratory meal in honour of Gabriel Byrne’s birthday (and his honeymoon with Demi Moore). The best squid I have ever tasted, anywhere. We all get totally hammered on tiny amounts of the local rice wine, and stay up way past our bedtimes at the Hoài Café. This has been the best day yet, despite its inauspicious and painful start. I bloody love this country.

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam

1. Stern reminder to self. If you've just had a spontaneously great night out dancing (casting caution to the winds and whirling round the floor like a man possessed), do not attempt to replicate the same experience two nights later. Although you will doggedly stay till the end, hoping in vain for the magic to re-create itself, you will still, most assuredly, have A Crap Time. This is known as The Law Of Diminishing Returns, and you ignore it at your peril.

2. Interesting medical tip for the middle aged (yet young at heart). If you're still suffering at the end of a two-day hangover, then you should immediately go out and create the necessary conditions for a second two-day hangover. Against all expectations, the second binge will actually cancel out the effects of the first binge. Miraculously, there will be no second hangover. Although this is probably because you have now pickled your innards beyond the point of caring, the ensuing sensation of having Got Away With It This Time is wholly delightful.

First Monday in September. The schools are back. Out on the road towards Bradbourne at 7am, we're down to 3 degrees Centigrade. Hard to believe that yesterday lunchtime, we were basking in shirtsleeves and shades.

There's the strangest low-lying mist over the fields this morning. It hovers above the grass, but stops well below the treetops. Eerie, other-worldly and arrestingly beautiful. On the car stereo, Jethro Tull's Living In The Past has popped up. Wonky pastoralism which matches the mood.

Back in Nottingham, a pile of dead leaves blocks the front door and blows into the porch as we step through. Summer's over.

Warning. In a radical break with tradition on this site, what follows is that most rare of articles: a positive restaurant review. I can only apologise for the lack of the usual sneering invective.

Although this is of scant interest to anyone living outside Nottingham, I must recommend Saltwater bar/restaurant as a great place to spend a Sunday lunchtime. Situated in a distinctly unpromising location - our gigantic Warner Village/Cornerhouse complex - Saltwater actually turns out to be something of a hidden gem. The layout is cool and spacious, contemporary without overdoing it, with some well-thought out details and imaginative touches. You immediately forget that you're in a multiplex. There's a large outside balcony area which faces South over the city centre rooftops. It's surprisingly secluded (you can neither see nor hear the traffic below) and makes a great sun trap. Overhead heaters have also been installed, ready for the cold season.

The service is friendly to the point of outright flirtatiousness (I'm not complaining), and mostly efficient (a mistake with one of the main courses was swiftly and smoothly rectifed). It has definitely improved in leaps and bounds since our first evening visit a few weeks ago.

The lunch menu is amazingly good value for the quality on offer: £12 for two courses, or £15 for three. Seafood is the main attraction, and the freshness and quality is excellent - the three of us sampled mackerel, tuna and swordfish, none of which could be faulted. As the dishes had been kept fairly simple and unpretentious (no over-elaborate foofiness here), this meant that attention could be paid to all the important details - like cooking the fish for exactly the right amount of time. These are the kind of priorities which I appreciate.

The wine list is extensive, ranging from cheap through to pricey, with an unusually large number available by the glass. Having economised with the food, we pushed the boat out with a decent Californian Viognier - which sounds a bit unlikely, but it was a real beauty of a bottle, full of flavour and character. It's worth asking for "normal" wine glasses though; the standard glasses on offer are ridiculously shaped wide tumblers which don't allow your nose to get stuck in properly.

Although the music seemed to be randomly selected, there wasn't one track played which I didn't like, and the volume was - for once - set just right (clearly audible without being intrusive). New stuff and old stuff in equal measure, and they also made my afternoon by playing a long-forgotten early 90s favourite: Breakdown by One Dove (featuring Dot Allison). Finally, even the espressos were spot on (a rarity in this town, I can tell you).

Maybe we just lucked out. Maybe the place will have lurched downhill by Christmas. Or maybe - just maybe! - we've finally found a trendy midmarket bar/restaurant in town which has actually Got Things Right For Once. I sincerely hope for the latter.