Jammin' - jammin' me hope you like jammin' too

Jam café. That's a good name for a café isn't it? Based in the middle of Hockley, Nottingham. 12 Heathcote Street to be precise.

I called in the other day on my way through town. I wasn't quite singing Bob Marley songs to myself. And now I've written the title I can't get the danged thing out of my head. Holy Mount Zion rastaman!

We're jammin' (jammin', jammin', jammin')
And we're jammin' in the name of the Lord;
We're jammin' (jammin', jammin', jammin'),
We're jammin' right straight from Yah. and so on

Tea, tea! Think man. English! Tea! Escape the music! It will trap you forever! Earl Grey. Cold and wet weather. Rain, lots of. God Save Our Gracious Queen. Bohemian Rhapsody. Steak and Kidney Pudding. Jack Russell dogs, Winston. White Cliffs of Dover. Labour Party. The Daily Mirror. Government. Economic Downturn! Doctor Who! Rose Tyler. Terry Wogan. Kate Bush. Litterbugs. I'm BACK!

I'm back to reali-tea now and nearly over-filled the teacup taking this arty photo below. Well really I haven't huge amount to report in culinary terms but this newish place is a chilled out café and apparently they do an open mic session every Wednesday night. Maybe I should get down there and get funky. Does that terminology date me?

When I was enjoying my tea break there were a little group of people tucked away to my left discussing surrealist poetry, Paul Belmondo, Jean Seberg, Pop Art and subversive croissant eating and the French version of Breathless (À bout de souffle) was playing silently on a flat screen above them with subtitles for the non- Francophone. The characters in the filme were all smoking cigars in bed and kissing each other in a fog of 1960s acrid cigar smoke! Did they not realise that was bloody dangerous?! Not only to their health but their chic French apartment could have gone up in flames! Zut alors, merde and Holy Mount Zion man!

I finished my tea and left in a monochromatic - Nouvelle Vague - mood. I jumped onto my throbbing lambretta and roared disdainfully down la rue Heathcote, smoke trailing behind. Women on 'la porte des oies' sighed. That's 'goosegate' by the way. The man with the hat and tash on the mural below shouted out that my chili was prêt a porter but already it was tros tard. Fin.