So that'd be three wins on the bounce. Well done, us.

Anshul / Ed / Andy (ordered by average) on parade again and in full effect. Mostly. First five games to us, bish bosh.

That was before Mighty Mick Talbot (already beaten by Ed) stepped up to be counted. Biff, he outpointed Andy in the fifth end. Bam, another five ends against Anshul, who pulls away in the decider to go 10-4 up. Nothing can go wrong now as Anshul's on for his hat trick. Unbelievably, Mick drags it back to deuce and saves yet another matchpoint before putting Anshul out of his misery. Quality comeback, that one.

Doubles turnout for Ed and Andy. Did our best to make a game of it, and won.

Finally they'd get a solid night's sleep now that he'd replaced the smoke alarm battery on the landing. She should also be pleased that he'd touched up that dark spot on the ceiling. Such were the dual benefits of (a) working from home and (b) being able to float.

Unusually, he had his mother-in-law to thank. Returning from another once-in-a-lifetime holiday, she'd presented him with a fancy tin of coffee: Afro Espresso, "for that natural high!" He'd thanked her, of course, and put it in the cupboard to await its turn.

Weeks passed and he found himself working from home one sunny morning. Half-ten, and there was that familiar pang -- need caffeine now. Blast, he'd finished his tried and trusted brand the day before and had meant to buy some fresh stuff. Anxious, desperate, clammy rifling through the cans and jars ensued until he pulled out the scarlet and gold Afro can. Hopes weren't high, but coffee was coffee.

Machine primed, he'd watched the black gold ooze into his pre-warmed cup. Looks good, smells good ... and tastes amazing. A wave washed through him, tongue to toe, and he oscillated between woozy and razor-sharp. Hang on, why was that spotlight level with his eye? Don't look down, they say. He did, and remained aloft, feet dangling over the sink.

Before he could get anywhere near coming to terms with whatever was going on, the back gate opened as a long ladder appeared. At the precise moment that he spotted the window cleaner's arm, he fell to earth, landing heavily as knees hit laminate, bam. There he stayed, awkwardly propped up against the washing machine, bruised and confused.

After several minutes, he heard Mr Squeegee move round the back and felt himself slowly rising again. He was barely off the floor when he caught sight of his ungainly self in the gleaming tap: crunch, down he came. Up once more, this time with eyes shut tight. Breathing hard, he opened one eye: there was the cat. Reflexively, he flinched, expecting another rapid descent. Hardly bothering to look up, the cat tucked in to its dry food.

Pressing his palms against the Artex, he eased his way into the hall. By avoiding all reflective surfaces, he was able to enjoy a good hour's worth of cloudlike hovering before he felt the caffeine buzz subside. That first morning was a painful lesson in establishing the rules of floating.

Let's say we were to take this whole light lunch gubbins to a media consultant. Mr Clifford, we'd say, how can we best publicise these cafe outings to a mostly uncaring public? Ah, Max would say: what you need is a celebrity. Oh, we'd reply, we nearly had that Fabio Capello at Origo. No, he'd explain, you need someone there at the time, a personality, a household name. OK, we'd say, shuffling off, we'll think about it.

So there we were soaking up some early March sunlight outside the south-facing Sunrise Cafe, fittingly enough, when Andy looked over my shoulder and said, "Isn't that Mark Murphy?" No no no, says Max, I don't care how many Sonys he's won, some local radio bloke won't cut it. Think bigger, think national. Minute or so later, Andy glances up and remarks, "That bloke who's just walked in: isn't he that Blue Peter chap from way back? Not John Noakes, the other one." In I went to order a coffee and sure enough, putting away a big breakfast is, drum roll, Peter Purves. Says Max, I guess he'll do.

Many are the choices at the Sunrise -- bit like Jack's -- and that's excluding the multitudinous specials described on the lumo cardboard stars. To demonstrate our diversity, G. had the chicken curry, A. the (neatly presented) breakfast and E. the Spanish omelette & chips. Muchos eggy goodness. As I splashed on the brand-free ketchup and we deployed cutlery, a seemingly dodgy lookin' fella at the next table acted as doorman for folk who couldn't deal with the pig-of-a-door, and so proved himself a perfect gentleman.

Mid-terrace 70s setting is reminiscent of the 'Stowe's Family Cafe, while the friendly and helpful staff (mayo? sauce? how was that?) took me back to the Central Canteen. No wonder it's busy, and we were lucky to grab our prime open air seats with their wondrous view of, er, Tesco's. Those with more wrinkles, inc. me, may remember Hedley's Grill Cafe facing onto St Matthew's Baths.

I'm sipping my milky coffee as PP ups and leaves, returning by the looks of it to Radio Suffolk. Thanks, Pete, for coming and providing a cool way to kickstart this week's review.

If it was a car -- Suzuki Grand Vitara.
If they were passing by -- Peter Purves.

Good to have the full quota of three fit players, unlike last time, and better still when that threesome comprises Anshul/Ed/Andy. Sorry to everybody else who's paid their subs, but we need the points.

Signs weren't great when starman Ansul went down 3-1 in a cracking match to M_Ramsey, who turned out to be their best player (at least on the night) by a long way. Andy lost by the same score in another big-hitting stonker, while I couldn't get anywhere near him.

On a happier note, all three of us won our other singles games -- Ed in straight games (natch), Andy and Anshul scraping past Tracy and Scott respectively. That, plus an Ed/Anshul doubles win, meant we fully deserved our celebratory drinkies and Nobby's Nuts at the coffee-less Oyster Reach.

To quote the Big O, it's over. After some three months, I finished my book. Reading that back, sounds like I'm writing one (not yet, come back, do not be alarmed) when actually I've been reading one. Quarter of a year? One entire season? Did I run out of crayons?

Nope, the faithful book light has been pinned to the back cover of a minor tome called Gravity's Rainbow by a chap named Thomas Pynchon. This whopper weighs in at a stonking 902 pages. That's a papermill of papyrus. Mightn't be so bad if it was a rollicking page-turner; instead, it's bloomin' hard work, so much so that separate readers' guides are available. Being honest, there were times when I didn't have a clue what was going on.

Central character to emerge is Tyrone Slothrop, a WWII GI with a bizarre link to the German V-2 rocket. Other fantastically named individuals include Pirate Prentice, Roger Mexico, Jessica Swanlake and Ronald Cherrycoke, and that's just in the first 200 pages. Interesting man, Mr Pynchon. Avoids all publicity yet has appeared in The Simpsons a handful of times, his character always shown with a paper bag covering his head.

Immediately prior to this epic, I'd read a charming book called All Of My Friends Are Superheroes -- quite large text and a grand total of 108 pages. It'll be good to return to reading paperbacks that won't crush you if you fall asleep, though I shall miss the Rocketman.

While our facefeeding was in full flow, that Fabio Capello was in town (note) about 400m away opening shiny Suffolk New College. Our Italian buddy remarked: "I visited this ... city long time ago when I was a player." There we go, instant city status. He wouldn't be drawn about either the Orwell Bridge or Roberterry.

And I dream I'm on Eagle Street, a boulder's roll from Janet's. Over there is Central City Comics, home to Grant Morrison and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Over here is Suffolk Origo, home to Noam Chomsky and The Koran For Dummies. In fact, it's only when you glance through the bookcases here that you suspect that there's some sort of angle -- this is a Muslim community centre doubling up as an internet cafe, or vice versa. Whatever, the chow is cheap and plentiful and good.

Spy-like, I come in from the cold to find that the brio trio have commandeered a comfy couch. Choice is also threefold: potato (baked), pizza (slice) or pasty (assorted). Giant Cornish, please, plus a bag of Walkers and an Oasis, all for less than £3. Margins must be minimal. Old Ipswich b&w images by Francis Frith contrast sharply with new Ipswich panoramic colour images of the rejuvenated waterfront. Like them a lot, hanging above the flatscreen monitors.

That processed pastry disappears soon enough and we're on to the sweet course. All remaining carrot cake (with cream filling) is spoken for afore I get there; Rene is kind enough to share his. With space still to fill, I'll take some Carte D'Or, which, at 40p a scoop, is a subzero steal. It comes to me that I used to visit these premises for Game Gear goodies. That dates me.

Lady behind the counter hasn't done an Americano before, but it comes out fine c/w caramelised biscuit on the side. Cosy and warm in here with ample reading material (inc. "normal" mags like Q) to browse: should I stay or(should)Igo?

If it was a car -- Renault Twingo.
If they were passing by -- Will Self.

There was a time when you'd find one or more of us over in the TT hut several lunchtimes a week. A quick mini round robin to establish bragging rights, then over to the hub for sarnies. Time moved on and we'd go over less often, maybe once a week. Then Grenvyle "left" the mother company and we kind of abandoned the idea entirely. Could this drop-off have resulted in the Defiants' lamentable recent form?

Quite a novelty, then, on Monday for me and Andy to find ourselves back over there, both playing the odd shot that we'd never try in a proper match. And Anshul was keen for a brief practice prior to tonight's game, so we had a solid 15 minutes to & fro.

Lo and behold, we won tonight! Brace for Andy who turned up late and left early, and maximums for Anshul and Ed!! Double exclamation madness. Maybe there's something in this whole practice thing after all.