Phil

The bar at the Phil continues to frustrate.  Pretty to look at, but rubbish as a bar.  It's ergonomically all wrong and in the wrong place, in the middle of the room.  Anyways, Pink Martini tonight as a paying punter (well, Anna paid) and I got the ticket because Susannah said she couldn't stand a whole evening of them.  An interesting mix of styles, languages, rhythms and a lesson to all that we're not defined by borders, nor indeed, by much else, save for who we are.  All of which philosophical thought is not well illustrated by a shot of some bottles and a ceiling.  Maybe you had to be there.