Superstition

There is a new bar of which I must not speak. Its location is a secret, its very existence at present a deniable rumour.

But it is in my 'hood, and - if it survives - there is a serious danger that it could become a semi-regular stopping off point for a last nightcap on the way home for me. It's a bit upmarket (read: stupidly overpriced) for my taste, but they have a whisky selection that could make strong men weep with gratitude.

They also have this rather charming gimmick of offering you a free mini-padlock to clip on to one of the thin rails specially mounted for the purpose on the rear wall of the bar. The idea is that you write the name of your beloved in indelible marker on the padlock, and he or she will then be bonded to you for as long as the padlock remains locked in place. (Hmmm, might not be that long if the bar folds; and I really don't think it's all that viable a venture.)

I have absolutely no belief in this sort of hocus-pocus at all - but I am a goofy romantic, and I therefore couldn't resist inscribing the name of The Bombshell (the gorgeous blonde businesswoman who stole my heart a month ago) on one of their padlocks.

[I fear this is rather like the terminally ill turning to TCM and other 'alternative' therapies - when you're desperate, you'll try anything! Not that I ever like to think of myself as 'desperate', of course. Oh no. There ought to be a better word to sum up the discrepancy between the fullness of your ambitions and the emptiness of your prospects.]