And so, to Bristol...

Karin and I meet from time to time, to assess progress and plan onwards. Anne and I left Bristol for Tooting at least 18 years ago, so returning is always about how things have changed and how things have stayed the same. We went for lunch along North Street which used to be in Bedminster, but is now Lower Clifton Borders. Or something. These days it's all cafés and artisan bakers, though I was pleased to see Corals and the Ironmongers clinging on.

Anyway, a working lunch in the Tobacco Factory. Karin brought out her A4 hardback notebook. I came up with a good idea and said “oooh write that down” and this set the tone for the whole weekend, as did the bottle of fruity house red that disappeared soon afterwards.

We flirted with the cute girl with her own small florists in the entranceway to the restaurant. Karin won. We even directed her to this site and told her to leave a comment if she liked it. She hasn't. Self-promotion is hard work. And thirsty.

We headed off to both Shakespeare pubs. In Baldwin Street I reminisced about being an insurance clerk. In the one by the Arnolfini we tried to come up with names for our new detectives. Mark joined us for dinner and entertained us, and most the other diners upstairs in Mud Dock, with a jolly interesting Teds talk on Evolution (mutation/adaptability) versus Environment (obesity/in-breeding). No, I know, I don't either.

Anne joined us Saturday, and we sauntered off to Clifton Village to suss out possible locations for our next book. Sweet and chi chi it may be, but it's just too, well - posh – for me. When at similar locations in, say, Brussels or Paris, I walk around billing and cooing, but I'm just too attuned to every tiny seam of class in this country to ever feel fully comfortable in Clifton.

Back home for roast chicken, port and bullshit, sneaking Neil Diamond onto play when Mark's not paying attention. Sunday breakfast back in North Street. We watched an old, close friend walk by. Someone we hadn't seen for 20 years. It seemed as unimaginable as the fact that we were actually having breakfast in the Hen and Chicken. Back in the day this pub was the acme of working class toughness and I'd cross the street to avoid it. All that's remained is the name. And it seemed to me that North Street has grown as we have grown. Gone up in the world. But not too far. Matured into its own particular stratum of middle-class.