Some days, cycling up this hill is desperately difficult, but in today’s morning sunshine – not yet vicious – the air feels thin and pliable, parting to let me move through it. The thought of the next corner pulls me on as much as does my appointment – strict timing, no latecomers allowed – at a gym class at Splashpoint. My pedals slow and I let out an anticipatory snorty-laugh
Tuesday night at the Honey Hush Club and Colin Tenn on the decks mixes classic Elvis with lesser-known tracks, making judicious choices about tempo, era, danceability. Many people made the effort to dress up vintage: anything from 1940s style wide-leg pants – so conveniently back in high-street fashion this summer – through denim dungarees (aren’t they fantastically hot to dance in, you wonder) and, naturally, several circular skirts. Nobody’s wearing net
The barista’s tattoos are beautifully done – multi-coloured swoops and curls of dramatic shapes. It makes you a bit dizzy to look at them as you sideways-squint, trying to make out the images, trying not to be too stare-bear, while she focuses on not getting scalded by the heavyweight high-end machine. She looks up and catches you looking a bit too intensely. You smoothe it over by asking what the