Midnight in Soho, 2005.

no fixing in doorways, no poppies for young men.
a new Desperado sign buzzes on the tinted mirror wall (which wraps up the entire room and backroom too). not a portent, i hope, but nellie orders one anyway, unable to resist the bartender's unembellished pitch: it's french. we sit in a corner - it's all a corner - on worn red pleather. said tender serves us a mixed grill of mostly cuttlefish innards with experienced hands. her name is brij. the dirty little drinks menu is pastelled on the dark mirrors, smirking away: baby woo woo, french kiss, wallis blue.

casanova lived here on greek street once. after he haunted venetian roofs in single bounds, oh that verb's all wrong....watering my coffee and sipping the flowers...is that what humbert said?

we're here solely because the entertainer has the same name as i do. an inspired outing. she is brazilian, as might be the bar, but i can't be sure. she strides to the back, a red gaucho hat pulled not quite over her shortish straw hair. she fiddles with an amp, rustles some papers. her guitar has leopard print holes in it. her voice is fluid and mellow, pleasing the sangria ears, soundtracking nellie's canterbury tales. feedback shoots through the speaker from time to improvised time and we twizzle our eyes before swivelling for the drinks pitcher.

this area was once a hunting ground. one could hear the hunting cries of "so-ho!" all the way to whimpletown. and one still can.