Must have forgotten to write up Latitude 2020, which is unlike me. Last one I can find is 2019. Oh well, sun's out and I'm back Back BACK for 2021, and on a Friday too. Double-flash at the gates of my QR ticket and my "expires 24 July 2021 at 11:43am" NHS Covid Pass then the usual protracted perambulation past tents, the medical centre and the pop-up Co-op.

Obligatory photo of the shiny LATITUDE lettering, mandatory queueing for a Greenpeace coffee, then a struggle to locate The Outpost among the yogis. Mind the nettles, whispers a helpful chap as I park myself on the ground to hear polished Kate Mosse (not that one) telling us How To Start Your Novel. We should know what colour socks our protagonist is wearing, she says, and remember that while lots of people want to write a book, very few do. Friend Adrian, a fellow scribbler, is in the audience and invites me (and his wife) to a posh hot choc. Which is nice.

Back over The Writers' Bridge and into The Sunrise to see the latest Specsavers Scottish Music Awards Breakthrough Artist, one Luke La Volpe plus band. Great voice, great look, great accent. Festival tweet took me to the trashy Trailer Park for some New York Brass Band: unlikely combination of a pumping sousaphone and a steampunk device pumping out smoke rings over the dancing crowd.

Took my £11.50 burrito over to The Alcove only to find that stewards were restricting the numbers so only able to sneak in for the final twosome by The Cool Greenhouse; they finished by trying to thank all other bands on the bill at the start of their winning track Alexa: "Please never stop listening in". Hoped to catch local food supplier Hodmedod's at the Theatre of Food: instead watched Kathy Slack grilling helda beans for ten mins before feeling the need to do a runner.

Would have liked to stay longer in the BBC Sounds tent for Dream Wife and their Bjork-esque lead singer but had to secure my spot in The Ballroom. Well done, me, for finding a prime location with a Mr Whippy to finish as the legendary Adam Buxton appeared in his SHORTS! Banana, Bad Dad and bags of Supergrass in a baggy BUG special. Chanced across Stephen Fretwell, clearly big enough to merit a 6pm slot in Sounds though new to me: classy and charismatic if a tad Radio 2 to me. Grown men around me mouthed the words.

Past Georgie surrounded by sofas at BBC Introducing for an impromptu visit to The Listening Post, the somewhat sparsely populated literary and poetry place. Gotta catch self-deprecatingly endearing Jon Osborne reading some of his latest poems "based on different aisles of the supermarket". Lovely stuff, and the crowd slowly swelled, drawn by his poetic pictures and the draw of next-up Mark Kermode. Who's this Jack Howard teenager?

Left the Kermode family (and Adrian) to be sure to catch Squid in Sounds. Oh my, what an awesome and apparently unstructured racket they bang out. With time running out before the headliner, selected the smallest food queue then carefully held my plate of pie & mash & peas as Hot Chip graced the stage. Wish you could have felt the release as the crowd sang along with Over and Over before an unexpected Springsteen finale. Wonderful.

Feeling the long day start to catch up with me, I aimed for the exit. Not so many volunteer guides this year, it seemed, to point me towards Red Car Park 2. Faced with a darkened field of cars, I fired up what3words and entered ideals / blend / habits: over there somewhere, it said. Navigate there? Yes please: Google Maps "can't find a route". Reverted to the compass app. Slow going, but boy was I glad when a light appeared in response to pressing the car remote. Returned home with a Backlisted podcast about Steve Aylett.

...and still missed Wet Leg, Dry Cleaning and Wolf Alice.

Seeing me about to head out on two wheels, G. and Middler advised that I'd be too hot in my long-sleeved top. Did I listen? Bien sur que non, and thus I was glowing like a 1950s young Elizabeth ascending Grove Lane. Precious few places to park your pedals opposite the Co-op so I nabbed a nearby post, wiped my face, and donned my mask.

At the start of the Foxhall Road local centre stand Four Paws, Salon 31, The Tan Box, The Grove Aesthetic Clinic, and then what I'm here for, the 2021 opened Little Beans Coffee House. "Independent" says the italics; "fresh hot coffee" reads the banner. Mucho coffee signage inside. I better hang back from that distinguished behatted gent at the counter: hold on, it's Andy! Yes please, I'll join you in a Lovestruck smoothie. We'll have those on the table outside, ta v. much.

Drinks are quality fruity beverages with the texture of gazpacho and presented in glasses wider than Syd Little's. Meanwhile Andy's fresh from Nordic walking by the Deben -- oh, the retired life -- and also from a late morning bacon butty at the Whistlestop. Nonetheless, here's his Brie & bacon baguette, and here's my pre-wrapped chicken & pesto, both with a handful of tortilla chips. There's a fine view of Bro's the apostrophed barbers and the passing Ipswich buses. Blinkin' boilin' in the Suffolk sun. Yes, I'm overdressed. If only someone had said something.

Inside for his iced coffee (with cream) and my vg chai latte and a chat with Christy the ex-Coffeelink area manager. Business is good so far having opened mid-February. She's got her regulars and is all about the coffee. Picked the wrong weather to try one of the good-looking cakes on show. I shall return to LB.

If it was a car -- Mr Bean's British Leyland Mini 1000 Mark 4.
If they were passing by -- Simbiatu Ajikawo.

"Bit short notice," began the text from Andy, "but I've got a couple of hours in Ipswich tomorrow, Monday afternoon, from 3-5pm if you're available for a coffee somewhere?" Fair enough, I thought: I could maybe stop work at 4pm if I start an hour-and-a-half earlier than usual. "I suggest cafe at The Hold opposite the university. Should be open until 5. I'll get there as soon as I can after 4. OK?"

The retired founder of light lunches was polishing off a cream tea when I rocked up at the outdoor seating out front; he'd grabbed a fab parking spot on the wonderfully named Coprolite Street near Coffeelink. Within two mins of my arrival, a smiling young woman brought me a latte and a chunk of iced lemon cake. All good but, thinking that I shouldn't judge a caff purely on the c&c, I decided to make a short solo return visit at the end of the week:

There's a rather fine spanking new heritage centre behind the cafe with more records than Our Price. I'll be back there shortly for the Lego exhibition.

If it was a car -- Holdsmobile Bravada.
If they were passing by -- Cherie Lunghi.

Bliss of a recent sun-soaked week in Cornwall was tempered by two calls from Middler: one at the start of the week to say that our poor old cat was on her last legs, and one at the end of the week to tell us that she'd just returned from A&E having come off her bike. Surely things would improve for her with a weekend away in Bristol? Yes, up to the point a friend texted to say she'd had a positive Covid test, thus requiring Middler to immediately self isolate and cancel her long-awaited driving test. Some girls don't have all the luck.

Elsewhere (and with Middler now less bruised, germ-free and returned to John Lewis), time for me to tear myself away from the televised footy -- big Euros 2020/21 quarter-final this evening -- and to take G. out to lunch. I had just the place in mind and directed she-at-the-wheel off the A12, through Hacheston and Parham and onto some twisty turny new Suffolk roads. That B1119 switches back multiple times and past the Sweffling White Horse before leading us over a bridge into Rendham, home of the Juniper Barn. Parking outside as per the Smokehouse at Falkenham. Box of secondhand books sat outside, a civilised sign.

Trusty masks on for the short guided trip to our prebooked table. Beams ran overhead: my wife, who knows about these things, pronouced this barn-of-a-place as "some sort of agricultural building". A teenage boy brought us the specials board -- couple of quiche, lentil & coconut bowl, soups, etc. -- and took our order. G. went for the Scotch egg: "Sorry," he said, "but I've just had the last one for lunch. But the fishcakes are good!" Fishcakes it was, for her, and the shakshuka for me. Packed with peppers, it very much did the job. Pleasing soft drinks too with the San Pellegrino range and some Breckland posh pop.

High-class grub aside, the JB all-stars offer fresh local produce and "a range of essential food" in what's effectively the village shop at the end nearest the entrance. Artwork on the walls (I spy a hare) is for sale, as is a selection of new books, and G. bought some eco shampoo plus half a dozen eggs and a cucumber. Seating outside, too: shame about today's drizzle and not being up to sampling the tempting cakes. More than made do with his-and-hers flat whites. Still not entirely sure where Rendham is but took us ten minutes to reach Framlingham. If you're in that vicinity, buy brunch at the barn.

If it was a car -- Jowett Jupiter.
If they were passing by -- Jules Hudson.

James Callaghan's in Holly Lodge still waiting at the church
By Clarks a fed up Michael Foot forgoes his Footmans search
Neil Kinnock tuts at each closed shop from Quiz to Evolution
While John Smith chats to Johnny Wark re Scottish devolution

Dockside, Tony Blair says mea culpa for The Ark
As Gordon Brown climbs Constitution Hill to Christchurch Park
Milliband lurks by the stand that serves the sizzling pork
Spots Corbyn cycling to the jam night at The Duke of York

Ranelagh Road's abuzz as our man labours with the lingo
Tory sleaze? That’s thirty-three!
Johnson's den? It’s number 10!
Keir Starmer's at the bingo