Mele e Pere has such bright neon lights outside that walking past I’d previously dismissed it as a sex shop. It’s not, despite some odd shaped Murano glass sculptures of the eponymous fruits on display, but nor is it a trattoria of yore. It’s modern; the high scrubbed wood tables accessed by the kind of tall stools that present a challenge to puffed out old bloaters like K and myself.

Lucy Self pulls on her wellies for a trip to the countryside and visits Godalming’s Bel & Dragon.

In the shadow of the massive garden marquee we know as the O2 Arena is a newly renovated pub known as The Pilot. Offering punters pre-show dinners and a stopover post-show, Poppy Laking, Warden of the South, samples the in-flight menu.

I’ve got a slice of pizza in my hand and I’m looking at a picture of a scruffy bloke with a dark goatee. It clicks. It’s Caravaggio. I recognise him not because I’m a man of art, but because I’m old enough to remember his face on a lira note.

Fun and games of a ramen quiz and a chopstick using competition all helped the event rattle along nicely while the adventure of the outside lavs gave everyone who used them a war story to dine out on. All in all a good night out with fun food and all involved put on a solid performance

Weaving in and out of the suits that inhabit Chancery Lane is good exercise for anyone wanting to perfect their reflexes. Dodge the corporate lawyer, side-step the overpaid PA and somersault over the la-di-das who seemingly do nothing in the big glass-fronted professional officey buildings. Sooner or later you arrive at Kimchee.

Whatever previous critics have said, Cantina Laredo certainly isn’t a bad restaurant. I can’t comment on the authenticity, best ask a Mexican himself, but there is much to commend here from the food to the presentation to the service. If you want to try something different, it’s a solid bet. Go for the gigantic portions, stay for the margarita. 

Tonkotsu was a roaring success when it opened in Soho. Now a new branch, Tonkotsu East, has opened in Haggerston. Alex went down to see what all the fuss is about.

They don’t seem to have my reservation, but they do have a spare table so we sit down. The menu is picked up and there is a problem that my trained critical eye spots immediately. We are in the wrong restaurant.

By the time you read this there may something on the TV news other than reporters wading about earnestly while another OAP and her cat is boated to safety behind them. The great floods will be but a memory one day but as I watched the Thames rushing past like an express train from the calm comfort of the Bingham’s dining room last week, it seemed we were all doomed.