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Sitting here in the Drawing Room of Quintessentially Soho at The House of St Barnabas listening to the strains of oh I don’t know, some pianist, some trumpeter, the rat a tat of fingers skirting over MacBooks as a genteel companion sat across the room mirrors my action, I am led to consider how fortunate we Londoners truly are. Its Coltrane. This city can be a royal pain in the proverbial seat, but what a city it is! Spirits collectively lift as a slowly burning October grants us an afternoon of warmth, a soothing solar respite from the deluge of last week, when it rained so hard the downward sloping street was a flowing river, early autumn leaves wending their way down the glossed tarmac. Spinning pirouettes gleaming in the glare of the lamplight, offset by the waxing moon’s glint and glimmer. So I will remain here, convalescing in a sense after an arduous slog at the desk in the dungeon over the way, beyond the copse that is Soho Square, great Planes wavering in the balmy autumnal breeze. Onward then to one of many quaff holes that litter the narrow streets of this arty schmarty quarter, before puffing up one’s tufty pecs and briskly strolling in to Kyashii for Japanese fare, of which there will be more to enthuse about shortly.

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