Mid morning when Outlook confirmed that Young William Has Zero Friends this Friday. In need of an unreviewed eatery within two-wheeler range. What's the name of That Environmentally Sound Chain Of supermarkets? Consulting the store locator, we pull up a nearest top three in Eric Morley reverse order of:

• Duke Street (5.9m) -- of type Express, up to 3,000ft
• Kesgrave (2.12) -- of type Metro, up to 15,000ft
• Martlesham (0.39m) -- of type Extra, over 60,000ft

Coming soon:

• NanoTesco -- up to one billionth of a metre
• Tescopolis -- over 3,000,000ft

Barely into 7th gear before I'm securing the Boardman outside the monolithic Martlesham Tesco. Sign outside reads "Enjoy a visit to the Cafe today", and it wouldn't do to upset beneficient Mr T. Bypass the fags and mags into the L-shaped space operated by Eurest, who've applied their world blah leading service framework to blah facilitate this exemplar of service blah excellence. Which means there's sarnies, (Choice or cheapo), paninis (chicken piri piri, anyone?), and a bunch of food (pie, lasagne, chips) that, in homage to a 70s Woolies caff, was freshly prepared some hours before. Compare and contrast Sainsbury's, though service there can be Thorburnesque.

Receipt identifies my order as the JCT & COLD FIL**, i.e. jacket spud plus tuna mayo (generous) plus pepper-strewn salad, all with a Johnson's OJ and a duet of melting butter ingots and a Haven Hols scratchcard for £3.58 inc. three Clubcard points. Song 2 chorus! Er, there's no forks, I say to the badged lady: she remains mute and goes off to fetch pointy cutlery. Ying and yang-wise, the chap on the till is chirpily cheerful, apologising for the wait, etc. Potato is perfectly presentable. Prospect of the 24hrs garage isn't exactly Mrs Simpson's. There's poetry to peruse:

For the comfort of
all our customers
we thank you for
not smoking

That, and it's illegal. For pudd, my 2nd receipt proclaims PROMOTION**: curious, that double asterisk. For £2.75, a nice slice of "speciality" cake -- passion, ironically enough -- and a regular 83p cuppa coffee: press the Sugababes button to dispense, then add colour with a Lakeland Dairies milk sachet or three. I can only envy the equivalent megalith at Stowmarket which has an in-store Costa.

If it was a car -- Vauxhall Viva.
If they were passing by -- John Henshaw.

Picture a histogram where the x-axis shows means of transport to reach our lunch destination and the y-axis represents the frequency thereof. A dandruff shampoo above the rest would be the carbon-crazy car. Way down in the silver medal position would be the tree-hugging bike. Making a single solitary solo appearance would be our shoe leather. Chalking up a new entry this week would be ... the bus! Not any old bus, no sirree. Fanfare for the CassyBus, officially titled the Adastral Park railway shuttle service. Ta very much to George, our driver, for depositing us at the station, thereby getting us most of the way into town.

Top of St Peters Street, opposite the Sailor's Rest, look out for a modern building with plenty of glass, tables outside and a halo-based logo. There, in a nutshell, is a guide To recognizing your Saints. Ominous clouds overhead so inside we went. I believe that this place used to bill itself largely as a wine bar: after a recent makeover, though, it's emerged as a "cafe - tapas bar". Ordering drinks is the easy bit -- Fentimans equals class IMHO -- then there's the extensive array of nibbly bits to choose from. Their menu advises picking at least a couple of dishes. Not easy.

After we've um-ed and ah-ed, Grenvyle arrives fresh from his own free corporation bus. As he's choosing, ours is arriving. My Spanish chicken casserole with chorizo and potatoes is a treat, and would have made a tasty light lunch on its Tom Jones. Didn't really need the hummus too; mustn't let those mushed chick peas go to waste.

Nice part of town, this spot, ciabatta'd between Cardinal Park and the town centre, and an olive's throw from The Sanctuary. Feels pretty darn cosmopolitan tucking into tapas with the sun trying to break through. Good service, too. Shame that we ran out of time for what would most likely have been a top notch cup of coffee, but that's the way with public transport timetables.

If it was a car -- Seat Exeo.
If they were passing by -- Pablo Counago.

Congrats to our Grenvyle for defying medical opinion and reaching three-score years earlier this week. He celebrated by catching a Luxton & District omnibus, flashing his grundy pass and doing his best Jack Harper impression all the way to Tower Ramparts. Meantime us whippersnappers were high-tailing it down to The Swich in the Cassymobile and bagging a lucky space on Fonnereau Road. One hour will do us nicely.

My 1947 Kelly's Directory of Ipswich states that 42 Lloyds Avenue was home to "Andy's Cafe": come on Mr C, get that post-Canadian idea off the ground! Some 60+ years later finds us at number 38 in premises which wouldn't look out of place in Westward Ho! Shielding our eyes from that exclamation mark, we have reached Enjoy! Confession: I've been coming here for bloomin' years, often as not with the family. It's great. Isn't much to say beyond my original review from March 2001:

"... it seems to be modelled on Pret-A-Manger, which is no bad thing. Good variety of coffee and a good selection of freshly made sandwiches, plus hot paninis. Friendly service, and child-friendly too."

All of those comments hold water two World Cups later. There's a range of grab-and-go sarnies in the chiller, all made on the premises. Raising the temperature, after a brief flirtation with crepes, they've now moved on to omelettes. Still good and hot are the paninis, my choice today. I like the fact that when you order one with bacon & egg, they offer to add red or brown sauce. Plus you know that, unlike certain other establishments, it will turn up in good time, an advantage if you've got a fixed slot for lunch.

Other pros: for grown-ups -- today's newspapers, window seats to sit and watch the world go past, boxed salads, good coffee and cake; for kids -- Walkers crisps, lots of flavoured syrups for cream-topped milkshakes, downstairs loo. I don't get the Parisian scenes on the wall, straight outta Montmartre. I do get everything else. And I've realised that it's exactly the right size for what it does. So next time you're in town, go.

If it was a car -- BMW 318d.
If they were passing by -- David Lodge.

Drive or cycle from Felixstowe station into the town centre and you'll come to a three-sided geometrical landmark where the longest side of Crescent Road faces the right-angle formed by Hamilton Road and Cobbold Road. Behold the Pythagorean wonder of The Triangle, an almost holy Euclidean location marked not by a henge but by some questionable public loos.

We're headed halfway along the hypotenuse to, erm, The Triangle. Hold on, the acute reader points out, surely you've hit all the gin joints in the 'Stowe a long time agowe? Indeed we have. However, you might remember this locale as the amusingly named Froffee Coffee, which we visited on one of their off-days. Almost certainly unconnected with that review, FC bit the dust towards the end of 2008. Let's move on.

Now there's comfy sofas like a Nero, arty canvas prints, and tables that go back as far as Malcolm Marshall's run-up. Must point out the pair of chiller cabinets stocked with enough items for a whole series of The Generation Game: pre-packed sarnies, muchos cold drinks, choccy bars, mini Oreos, even some Ferrero Rocher. Daily specials include shepherd's pie, chilli, or an un-light bite in the form of a rack of ribs. Thankfully, unlike Froffee, you order at the counter.

My club sandwich turned up not a moment too soon, and what a monster. Salad (undressed) on the side, and a mountain of chicken & bacon filling on the ciabatta. Really flavoursome though a devil to eat. Trick is not to let go else the whole kit and kaboodle comes apart in your hands.

Other items on the conveyor belt would include a panoply of clingfilmed cakes, whisking me back to the accurately named Coffee Shop. Yes for convenience, no for sensory appeal and freshness. Not as classy as Sangha but much improved on Froffee.

If it was a car -- Peugeot 1007.
If they were passing by -- James Morrison.

I was coming up to my A-levels in early 1984 when I shelled out some cash (hard-earned from my Saturday job at Debenhams) on "The Works", the new album from Queen. Not the LP version, mind, but on pre-recorded cassette. Opening track of side 1 was the catchy Radio Ga Ga, helped out by the fab Metropolis inspired video. Opening track of side 2 was the less killer / more filler track Machines, which included these clumsy couplets:

What's that machine noise?
It's bytes and megachips for tea
It's that machine, boys
With random access memory
— Queen, Machines (Back To Humans)

That "bytes and megachips" line irked me then and irks me now. Shouldn't it be "chips and megabytes"? Message to self: move on. That lyric popped into my head after visiting the Mega Byte Cafe, situated on Ipswich's ungentrified Wherstead Road. This is on the bit that got bypassed a long while back, so finding it involves heading up Station St (off the Hawes St ring road) and turning right at the lights. Can't miss it.

First day of the Suffolk Show and naturally the weather's not great. I'm on the drag and turn up to find A&G piling in to their Mega Byte all day breakfasts. Need a large plate to hold two of everything, and there's tea and toast thrown in. Smaller ADB for me in the form of a satisfying bacon and egg sub, helped out by some brand name condiments: Sarsons, HP, Heinz. Cracking range of soft drinks to be had in the fridge, inc. new flavour Oasis, milkshakes and ginger beer, a pleasant change from the regular yard of Coke.

I can't honestly recommend the coffee (I'll 'fess up to stopping at the station for an AMT special on the way home), though the syrup sponge pudd did the job. Intriguingly there's a photo on the wall of Ian McShane and Dudley Sutton, aka Lovejoy and Tinker, all smiles at the Mega Byte. Perhaps this goes back to when an episode was filmed over at the docks?

There's papers, kids' meals, machines of the cash and fruit variety, WiFi (!) and they offer bed & breakfast. The various leaflets -- Grapevine, Pulse festival -- and notices -- Can You Grow The Biggest Pumpkin In Ipswich? -- hint that this is the rarity that is the neighbourhood caff. It's all much nicer than you'd think.

If it was a car -- Peugeot Bipper.
If they were passing by -- Chris Jury.

When I flicked through the brochure, I couldn't believe it. A hero of mine, someone whose music I've listened to for donkey's (rhubarb) years, coming to do a concert in Norwich? Seriously? Online I went PDQ and got me a ticket.

His name is Philip Glass, and his Wikipedia entry calls him "one of the most influential composers of the late-20th century". Around 25 years ago, I caught a telly performance of Glassworks, and promptly went out to a record shop (I know) to buy the LP (I know). Since then he's knocked out countless film scores, operas, symphonies, and given his name to the B-side of the great 1986 Official Colourbox World Cup Theme.

Into a hushed and packed Theatre Royal on Friday night came this small-ish figure. That'll be the announcer, I thought. No, it was The Man Himself to introduce each piece. Just him at the piano tonight. Straight into the lovely Metamorphosis 2, then 3, then 4: wonderful.

I'm sure that his music does strange things to my brain, perhaps the results of many late night sessions with his stuff playing in the background. At one point, during his Etudes ("I'll play six or seven of them, I haven't decided"), I snapped back into the room from whatever altered state I was in. Odd. He introduced one composition by saying that he'd been asked to write "something of indefinite length". No problem for Mr Glass.

The 90 minutes went far too quickly. One encore was a haunting tune entitled Night On A Balcony, which I hadn't heard before. Final encore was "Closing" from Glassworks. I was a happy chappy.

Should a lunchtime table booking be considered like a plane, i.e. arrive in plenty of time, a train, i.e. arrive just in time, or the Bawdsey ferry, i.e. all timings are approximate? Me, I'm the ferryman. My rather lackadaisical approach to timekeeping -- witness this piece from 100 months ago -- was found to be, erm, at odds with my dining partner. There were "words". Let's (eventually) agree to draw a line underneath it, shall we?

Word was that the peeps who once had Mortimers (fab fish joint, now Bistro On The Quay) were looking for a new place. Word is that they found it: welcome to Arlingtons on Museum Street, and what a building. Previously the Ipswich School of Ballroom Dancing, and for those with fictionally long memories, the original museum, opened 1847. Wasn't that long ago when this structure was in a right old 2-and-8, as seen in this 2005 photo.

They none too concisely term themselves a "cafe-bar & brasserie with deli takeaway": most bases covered there. We headed upstairs to the poshest bit, and were asked if we'd like to sit downstairs or up in the gallery. Up we go! From our seat in the gods, we could gaze down upon the mortals below, absently helping ourselves to iced water and crusty bread. Everything on the brasserie menu sounds appetising, from the starters to the chargrill, AND there's kids' options too. For me, the salade nicoise -- literally a nice salad -- love that tuna / olives / beans combination.

Did I mention the nearby mezzanine piano? Nobody tickling the ivories today. All feels tres chic in here, aided by the countless b&w French pix on the walls. They're open all day and, should your plastic stretch to it, you could happily consume three square meals in this relaxed ambience. Greatly looking forward to trying out the cafe-bar part. If I was still working in the town centre, I'd be a regular.

If it was a car -- Aston Martin V12 Vantage.
If they were passing by -- Ben Stiller.