Gosh, this place is way impractical. Just white stuff everywhere. Red wine accident waiting to happen. I keep my klutz alert high. It’s underneath a fireplace shop, and has lots of fireplaces inside it. Fireplaces and media tarts. We talked tv across a round white table under a round white light and drank sparkly white drinks. It’s very trendy apparently, in a bland, I’ve just spent five quid on a plate of four prawns kind of way. It was with some relief that I ended up in Hanway Street, where I belong, singing the blues in a back street bar. Because for a second there I almost felt clean. And that’s no way to spend a Friday night.

– Cat McShane