"The Series": Local Girl Runs (Expensively) Amok on The Avenue, Spinningfields

It's a bleak day, for I have realised that I am starting to sound like an old person. In pretty much any conversation that revolves around Manchester - its architecture, its shops, its bars and restaurants - I can now almost entirely be relied upon to come up with some meaningless nonsense about how much it's changed since I moved here sometime in the late twentieth century. I've not yet started using the phrase "back in the day", or "when I was a girl", but it's surely just a matter of time now.

And the trouble is, it's all true. Manchester has changed almost beyond all recognition since I was a girl, back in the day - it's still fabulous, just in a different, bigger, shinier way. Not everything quite hits the mark - the disappointing Triangle, the strangely sterile Printworks - but one newly-developed area that IS shaping up very nicely is Spinningfields, snugly tucked away just west of the city centre, between Deansgate and the River Irwell. Many of the restaurants and bars there have already made their name - think Australasia, The Alchemist, The Oast House, Southern Eleven - and now a new series of weekly events aims to drive traffic to the increasingly impressive array of shops there as well.

The first of these was last Thursday, and - frankly - had trouble written all over it from the start. First of all, it was hosted by Kurt Geiger, a shop that sells shoes and bags of such breathtaking beauty that you sometimes - sometimes - forget to look at the price-tag, with often costly results. Secondly, complimentary drinks were provided by the new Yacht Club Bar, and poured with astonishing generosity by a young man who greeted me with a friendly "hello - you were at the Yacht Club last night, weren't you" and merrily poured me all the more (despite my protestations that I would have been at home, studying, or reading, or something, and that he must have got me confused with someone else). Thirdly, there was a 10% discount on the night. And finally, I was attending in the company of two ladies whose - independent - reaction to the 10% discount was something along the lines of "well! practically free then!"

Add this all together, and you have a group of dangerously over-excited ladies, fuelled by large quantities of pink Prosecco, charging around an exquisite shop wanting to buy everything (you can probably take a guess how many shoes we accidentally knocked off the beautiful display you see here during the course of the evening), and lusting after every single item modelled on the thrillingly exciting "shoe catwalk". All I can say is, I'll get a lot of use out of the bag, and the purse, and that if someone were to work out cost-per-wear, it would probably be very reasonable indeed. AND I can offset the value of the items in the cute Molton Brown goody bags that were given out as well - practically free then.

The events will run every Thursday between 6 and 8pm, hosted by different shops on The Avenue, and will each be publicised from the Monday on The Avenue website and also via Twitter and Facebook. Each event is complimentary but you'll need to get your name on the guestlist by dropping them an email to confirm your place. A shoe catwalk? Shopping certainly wasn't this exciting back in my day...

Mr Trotter's Pork Crackling Dinner at Harvey Nichol's Second Floor Restaurant: Local Girl Set to Brave THE SCRATCHING

As should be manifestly obvious by now, I am a good, loyal and above all SELFLESS wife, wholly committed to making Mr Liz's life as pleasant as possible in every conceivable way*.

*if his wants, needs etc coincide with what I was planning to do anyway.

Take, for example, the way in which I have nobly adapted my own food tastes to accommodate his own, Northern-man preferences - I now don't mind a bit of a dabble with a tasty black pudding, and just last week I was to be found bravely forcing down large measures of whisky JUST so we could have something in common *swiftly deletes Liquorists' Whisky Trail post, in which I am to be found dancing aloft a table proclaiming the joys of Jack Daniels*.

This pretty much just leaves one last bastion to scale - the mighty fortress of the pork scratching. Now, I've never really understood the allure of this particular snack, although on the rare occasions Mr Liz spots a bag of scratchings behind a pub counter, his reaction is something akin to that of the small boy on the Disneyland advert who can't sleep because he's TOO EXCITED - imagine wide eyes, lots of sleeve tugging, plaintive cries of "look! look!" Even Scampi-flavoured Fries don't mesmerise him to quite the same extent.

The more cynical amongst you may suspect an ulterior motive in my sudden urge to tackle the world of the scratching; "why now?", you may be asking, or even perhaps "what's in it for you?" Well, nothing; it is a completely unrelated coincidence that on Friday May 18th Harvey Nichols Second Floor Restaurant (by some amazing fluke, one of my favourite places to eat) is hosting a three course "Pork Crackling Dinner" to celebrate the fact that the Food Shop now stocks Mr Trotter's Great British Pork Crackling - a joyous-looking bag of salty porcine goodness, on the front of which poses an imperious looking pig who clearly knows what a fine figure he cuts in his Union Jack waistcoat. This, presumably, is Mr Trotter himself, although whether he oversees the whole operation or is actually the one offering up bits of his own body for us to eat is not entirely clear.

The brains behind the brand, food writers Tom Parker Bowles and Matthew Fort, will be on hand to tell us more about the joys of scratching throughout the evening - I wish them luck, as I can envisage them battling against a tide of hungry boys who do not wish to learn ANYTHING about pork scratchings other than: where are my scratchings? can I have more scratchings? can I eat my wife's scratchings when she goes to the loo? haven't I seen you off the telly? why has that man got more scratchings than me? ad infinitum.

Head Chef Sam Everett has put together a lovely-sounding menu designed to showcase Mr Trotter's in all its glory - here's what's planned:

Starter

Scallops
Black pudding, Mr Trotter’s Pork Scratching, herb salad (I already know which bit of this Mr Liz will be trying to make me swap in exchange for my scratching)

Main

Pork loin
Confit pork belly, pig's cheek hash brown, Mr Trotter’s Pork Scratching

Dessert

Mr Trotter’s Pork Scratching baked custard (I know it's wrong, but this one excites me greatly, not least for the hope that Manchester gets a taste for it and Greggs etc are forced to add bacon to their custard tarts)
Chocolate mousse, Maple granite.

Places cost £30 per head - see the website for more details of how to book. Frankly, if anything is going to convert me, it's this - a gorgeously refined dinner, flawlessly served by sleek, professional staff in the luxurious environment of the Second Floor Restaurant. If only I didn't know, in my heart of hearts, that I'm bound to end up leaving with a man whose pockets are stuffed to bursting with bags of Mr Trotter's to eat noisily on the night bus...

Busy Wednesday Sees Plucky Local Girl Brave the Rain for The Yacht Club and The Mark Addy

Good old Manchester - it can always be relied on not to let you down. Take the 2002 Commonwealth Games, for example, which I seem to recall flew the flag with consummate pride by staging a closing ceremony in which Mini Coopers drove around in formation to the theme from Coronation Street, whilst lithe young men dressed in inplausible flat-caps performed gymnastics. I think there may even have been an act involving some whippets, although the mists of time mean I cannot be entirely certain about this.

Similarly, you could pretty much guarantee that the week Manchester's hottest new bar opened - a jaunty outdoor affair at Spinningfields called The Yacht Club, complete with large decking area and garden beds - the heavens would open and even Noah himself would perhaps raise a wary eyebrow at the apocalypse raging outside. Still, Mancunians are a hardy breed, not easily daunted, and Wednesday night saw a joyful crowd of people huddled cheerily under the awning drinking excellent Prosecco and generally behaving as if they were in the South of France rather than at the epicentre of a small gale. The Yacht Club has been admirably inspired by the 1950s-era French Riviera, conjuring up an impossibly glamorous world where all the ladies look a little like Audrey Hepburn and all the men wear deckshoes with insoucient aplomb. Despite the weather, and my subsequent decision not to wear the Capri pants I had planned, I was most impressed - I think I shall while away many a happy hour here between now and September, when the Good Ship Glamorous cruelly plans to set sail and disappear forever. Oh, and if you're the very nice blonde lady whose table we shared, I'm sorry I ate your nuts, and I appreciate you going to get more.

Sadly, we couldn't hang around at The Yacht Club - once the nice lady's nuts were gone it was time for a short skip across the Irwell's handy new pedestrian bridge for the monthly Gourmet Night at the mighty Mark Addy. You know how it works by now...six surprise courses of Robert Owen Brown's finest for £30, plus - if you're lucky - a kiss thrown in for free from landlord John. This is what we ate this month: all delicious, and - for the first time ever - attracting absolutely no disapproval whatsoever from the social networks, who are normally split between astonished admiration/jealousy/naked greed, and open-mouthed terror.

1. Morecambe Bay Shrimp Soup. There's a valuable lesson to be learnt here: if a little dish of soup has a pastry crust perching proudly aloft its upper environs, when you remove (and eat) said lid, the amber nectar pooling seductively beneath will be the approximate temperature of recently-spewed lava. It's a greedy girl indeed whose tongue is still burnt two full days after the event.

2. Line-Caught Anglesey Joey Mackerel with Herb Crumb. A revelation - these are the teensy weensy little fishies who, thanks to Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, must now be eaten if they are scooped up along with larger, more desirable specimens: and they were delicious. Mind you, someone had painstakingly removed every single teensy weensy little bone, and then thoughtfully carpeted them with a dark green blanket woven from cheese and herbs - it's what I like to think that fake verdure in the greengrocer's might taste like if one were to chow down whilst the shopkeeper's back was turned.

3. Fillet of Wild Sea Trout. NO-ONE can crisp up fish skin like the team at the Addy, making this meaty nugget, still swimming gaily through a sea of cream sauce, the best dish of the night.

4. Rabbit (shot in the head, according to a cheerful ROB) with St George's Mushrooms and Jersey Royals. I love Jersey Royal potatoes; just as well, as these apparently cost more than anything else on tonight's menu - worth every penny, I say. And indeed, I must have looked hungry, for Chef Owen Brown sneaked us a few more when no-one was looking - suggesting that all those hours spent sucking in my cheeks in pursuit of the "hungry waif" look had finally paid off.

5. Poached Pear with Saffron and Vanilla. An impossibly generous dessert, showcasing a perfectly poached pear (one of your five-a-day, don't forget, and thereby justifying EVERYTHING ELSE served with it) amid a sticky pool of sunset sauce that had to be largely retrieved by running one's fingers daintily over the plate. Add a scoop of vanilla cream and some homemade raspberry ripple ice-cream, and this was the Addy's best pudding to date.

6. Local Cheese Selection. I can't tell you much about this course, as I haven't eaten it yet - those extra Jersey Royals had taken their toll, and the cheese had to be wrapped up in a foil party bag to be taken home for later consumption. You KNOW you've had a class night when you find yourself riding home on the night bus in the company of a man with pockets full of dairy products.

So it is with much joy that I'm off now to eat my cheese - see you all at the Addy next month when we do it ALL AGAIN on Wednesday 30th May.

- The Yacht Club is at Hardman Square, Spinningfields, Manchester M3 3HF.

- The Mark Addy is on Stanley Street, salford M3 5EJ.

The Liquorists' Whisky Trail: Reluctant Local Girl Now Converted

Now, I'm aware that a casual, non-educated sort of glance at this blog MAY suggest that I am in the habit of going out for a drink or two. But whilst perhaps there IS some truth in this (OK, OK, there is), I am strictly a wine drinker - one, moreover, who accepts that she is not really very good at drinking spirits. I enjoy a gin and tonic every year with my mum whilst peeling vegetables for the Christmas lunch (and to be honest, I enjoy this as much for my sister's not-very-subtle glances at her watch as anything), but that's about it. I am most certainly NOT a whisky drinker; in fact, I would go so far as to say BLEURGH to whisky.

That's not to say I haven't tried to like it in the past. There was, for example, the uncomfortable moment when I poured diet Coke into something expensive at a friend's house, in order to make it more palatable; his apoplectic expression (complete with actual comedy splutters) indicated that this was not in fact an acceptable course of action. And the one and only time I ever drank a LOT of whisky was in 2001, when Jack Daniels were giving out a range of highly desirable gifts in Didsbury's Pitcher and Piano to people who bought two doubles at a time. Surely I only have to say that I ended up in Friday's Nightclub, still dressed in the clothes I'd worn to work, and no further evidence is required of my inherent incompatibility with this evil devil-brew.

So when The Liquorists ask if I'd be interested in going on their Whisky Trail - a tour around five bars in Manchester's Northern Quarter, with a shot and a whisky-based cocktail in each and grub at the end - I say thanks, but no thanks. They ask again, confident that they can win me round and expand my bibendi horizons. And - fatally - Mr Liz has by now got wind of the whole thing, and is looking at me with the kind of betrayed yet hopeful expression you see on the faces of special acting dogs in charity appeals. For Mr Liz LOVES whisky, to the point where he has to be put to bed in disgrace each year after the annual Manchester Whisky Festival, and Mr Liz now wants, more than anything, to go on the Northern Quarter Whisky Trail.

So we go, and with utterly dazzling predictability, I am a whisky convert by bar number two. Here's the whole slippery slope in all its surely-it's-too-early-to-be-drinking-this-much-hard-liquor glory:

1. Socio Rehab. It is here that we meet the rest of our drinking party and are introduced to Tom Sneezby, one half of The Liquorists and a man who clearly enjoys his job VERY much indeed. Our first drink is a shot of Woodford Reserve, and it frightens me a little, for it is just six o'clock in the evening and I'm surrounded by people swilling and gasping and mmmmmmming and generally making approving noises about a drink I don't really like very much. I try a sip or two, and then get Mr Liz to drink the rest when Tom isn't looking. But then an Old-Fashioned appears, and it is LUSH - tangy and sweet and bitter and lovely. I drink it all and Mr Liz looks disappointed.

2. Trof. Next up, Trof, and I blame Tom entirely for the fact that Mr Liz now knows that there is a new first floor Bourbon bar here - I may never see him again. Here we have Jim Beam Black. I like it. We have a cute enamel mug filled with Mint Julep, a drink that reminds me of summer and (I'm fairly certain) must count towards your five a day. I like this even more. I like Tom, I like Trof, I like the other people I'm with, I like that I feel a little tipsy and it's still broad daylight outside...I like EVERYTHING, in fact. Even whisky.

3. Apotheca. Just down the road at Apotheca, we are whisked downstairs to find a table set with TWO glasses of whisky each - one is the Scottish Auchentoshan, which I really enjoy, and the other is the *deep breath* Suntory Yamazaki Japanese Water of Life, which I don't. I do however, very much like the Whisky Sour, which reminds me a little of the Haribo Tangfast Chicks I bought to give out to my students at Easter and then ate myself when the coursework marking got on top of me.

4. NoHo. I have never been in NoHo before, but will definitely go again - this place has a great vibe and an irresistable-looking dance floor that sadly no-one else is tempted by at 8pm in the evening. Here we nestle in vast leather armchairs and snack on so-wrong-it-HAS-to-be-right cheese and caramel popcorn whilst drinking Jamesons. The cocktail here is most people's favourite of the night, and in true professional style, I have completely forgotten what it was called, what was in it, or indeed what my own name might be.

5. Back to Socio. The fifth and final stop is technically Almost Famous, but as it's their final weekend and the queue to get in now stretches back approximately as far as Wales, the food and drink is sensibly sent downstairs to our hungrily waiting mouths as we sit in comfort in Socio. Here, we drink Jack Daniels and Drugstore Bandits (a drink I have become most attached to during the 58 times I have already been to Almost Famous in the last eight weeks), and daintily eat the enormous burgers you see here. I probably have barbecue sauce all down my chin, but I don't care, for I am a WHISKY DRINKER, and I am proud to hold my glass aloft and proclaim ALL IT STANDS FOR.

By nine of the clock, it's all over. We loudly and lustily applaud Tom, who has done a sterling job keeping us on track throughout the trail's brisk pace, and has even taught us a few things. Most of all, he has taught me that I like whisky, and for this I am unsure whether to salute him or curse him; at least I ended up back in NoHo rather than Fridays this time...

- The Whisk(e)y Trail runs on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays for the next six weeks, and is priced at £30, £35 or £40 depending on which night you go. They start at 6pm and 7pm each night, and there are exciting whispers about trails later in the year based around vodka, rum and tequila, as well as trip in July/August that involves large quantities of gin and a barge on the River Irwell...see you there.

Local Girl Wins BIG at Grosvenor Casino Didsbury

First of all, I have to admit I am not by nature a gambler. Whilst I am not particularly cautious in my general, day-to-day modus operandi, I am a little unsure about the concept of handing over money that you might not then get back in the form of shoes, wine, cocktail etc; surely you're better off guaranteeing that nice pair of TopShop trousers than perhaps ending up with nothing?

Well, yes and no. My two previous forays into the heady world of gambling (I'm using the term quite loosely here, as befits a slightly unadventurous girl from the suburbs) have been fairly successful: a £10 win on the office Grand National sweepstake (which, to be fair, involved no more skill than picking a scrunched-up piece of paper from a Tupperware box passed round by a History teacher), and - more excitingly - a night on the BlackJack in the now-defunct Hard Rock Casino that yielded me about £80 profit which I promptly spent on drinks for everyone.

So it was with a mixture of excitement and trepidation that I heard of Grosvenor Casino's plans to open their latest venue just a stone's throw from my house, at the Parrswood Entertainment Centre in Didsbury. And it's taken me this long to go because I just felt a bit, well, nervous of the whole thing. Surely the place would be filled with scary American men in 1930s-style hats, and hard-nosed women with furs, and evil-minded croupiers who would take all your money whilst cackling in a Machiavellian manner?

In the end, Grosvenor took pity on me, and invited me in for a "Learn to Play" session at a nice quiet time when the scary, be-hatted Americans would not be there (if, indeed, they ever are). The lovely Rob showed us round, manfully pretending not to notice when he had to more or less physically drag Mr Liz from the impressive bar area, with its big screen football and separate Games Lounge - where he no doubt envisages himself sweeping the leader board at FIFA in the company of those who, unlike his wife, are NOT too mean to play against him. They also hold live entertainment here and - most importantly - serve a very good Cabernet Sauvignon that ladies may amuse themselves with once they've lost their husbands to Sky Sports News (put a man in a room with a TV screen and he will watch it, no matter what's on it: this is scientific FACT).

The venue also boasts a restaurant with a surprisingly classy menu - I certainly wasn't expecting to dine on a prawn & crayfish cocktail whilst Mr Liz delicately snaffled some smoked Scottish salmon with pickled ginger and wasabi cream - a really interesting combination that I was forced to sample several times whilst also admiring the generosity of crayfish in my own starter. For mains, Mr Liz had the steak special (chilli spiced minute steak flash fried and served with dauphinoise potatoes) whilst I had the Roast Duck basted in plum sauce, served with garlic and ginger pak choi and chilli noodles. I was expecting duck breast; what I got was far, far better - pretty much half a duck, served on the bone, with gorgeously crispy skin: even allowing for the dodgy perspective on this admirable photo, it was still MASSIVE. How Mr Liz managed to help with this AND then eat the dainty little treacle sponge you see here I will never know.

The food here is not particularly cheap, but it IS good, and service is faultless and friendly. They also run some enticing-looking deals: for example, on Wednesdays and Thursdays, you can choose two courses from the set menu and receive a cinema ticket for £11.50, and a range of well-priced "snacks" are served in the bar area (any venue that considers a full burger a "snack" has my vote every time).

Anyway, bolstered by our training session with Rob, where he patiently explained to us how to play and didn't once look cross at my foolish questions and poor card skills, we decided to have a quick flutter on the tables before we left. By this point I am no longer nervous: having had two glasses of the aforementioned excellent Cabernet Sauvignon, in my head I am now Sharon Stone, sashaying elegantly round the tables to the admiration of all who behold me ("well", a friend with limited and slightly confused film knowledge said afterwards, "I hope you had knickers on") and dazzling all-comers with my tenacious table skills. In reality, we had a few nice games of BlackJack on a table with some cheery middle-aged ladies who were also new to gambling, supervised by a charming young croupier who chatted with us and even gave us advice when needed - absolutely nothing to be scared of whatsoever.

The upshot? I will be going again, even if it's just for a drink at the bar or a meal in the restaurant; I fear I may be banned from the tables anyway after pretty much cleaning up last night. Yep, that's right - one £2 stake (of Mr Liz's money) + five swift, all-conquering games of BlackJack = enough money for a Triple Nom Burger and some dirty fries at Almost Famous tonight. Everyone's a winner...except, of course, Mr Liz.

- Grosvenor Casino Didsbury is at Parrswood Entertainment Centre, Didsbury, Manchester, M20 5PG and is open everyday from midday until - gulp - 6am.

Not Afternoon Tea at Harvey Nichols, Manchester: Local Boy Saved From Shopping Nightmare

There are certain words in the English Language that work harder than all the others put together. Add them to any other word and they instantly bring pleasure - take "and chips", for example: such simple words, yet when affixed to any innocently passing pie, fish or similar they guarantee a most excellent experience lies ahead.

"Afternoon" is a similarly selfless, industrious sort of word. Try appending it to "nap", and instantly picture yourself reclining on the sofa with a pot of tea and a somnolent cat on your lap. Now pop it in front of "drinking", and immediately it is a sunny Bank Holiday which you are spending in a beer garden with your nearest and dearest, secure in the knowledge that you are SAVING money as every alcoholic drink consumed between the hours of midday and 4pm counts double. So imagine my initial suspicion when Harvey Nichols announced that their estimable Second Floor Brasserie would now be serving something called "Not Afternoon Tea" - NOT Afternoon Tea? NOT dainty sandwiches, and little cakes, and so many cups of tea you have to use the toilet at least twice before you leave? NOT all of this?

Of course, I should have trusted them. This is NOT a replacement for Afternoon Tea, which continues to be served in the restaurant, but an alternative, to be used when in the company of those with more modest appetites, or boys who refuse to go for Afternoon Tea because they think they look silly eating dollies' picnic-sized food items (which, to be fair, they do). The idea is as follows: turn up between 2pm and 5pm, clutching £12.50, and in return you will receive a stunning dessert matched with a complementing cocktail. Yep, that's right - not a chance of a stray bit of healthy salad etc, just classy booze and pud served up in the always-buzzing atmosphere of the Brasserie.

We tried it last Saturday, when Mr Liz had already been dragged around the shops for several hours by a wife who was about to cruelly abandon him for Italy and was rubbing salt into the wound by making him queue with her for travel money on a Saturday. Just as his eyes were about to glaze over, he was rescued in the nick (there's an excellent pun here if you would care to stop and enjoy it for a moment) of time by the killer combination of the chocolate & caramel dessert option (dark chocolate pave, white chocolate créme brulee, peanut butter marshmallow and salted caramel macaroon) paired with Milk Punch (Kraken Black Spiced Rum, Crème de Cacao, Mozart Dark Chocolate Liqueur, vanilla sugar, chocolate bitters, milk and cream). Such was the power of this extraordinary combination that it completely wiped the pain of the hour that had just been spent showing polite interest in bags and shoes in Top Shop from his fevered man-brow.

Meanwhile, his good lady wife had the sticky toffee dessert (milk chocolate mousse, sticky toffee pudding, maple syrup jelly, fresh date and a belgium slice) partnered by the Dark 'n’ Stormy cocktail (Goslings Black Seal Rum, homemade gingerbeer, lime and soda). Such was the power of this extraordinary combination that it completely restored her energy levels ready for a new assualt on the bags and shoes department of Top Shop, although she was a little disappointed that the "fresh date" did not actually turn out to be a night on the town with a man with excessively wandering hands.

There are two other combinations to try - a jaunty-sounding citrus affair, and a flirty little tutti frutti number - so we'll obviously have to go back another time. NEVER has Mr Liz been so keen for another day spent shopping in Manchester...

- for more information and latest menus, see the Harvey Nichols website - then go for some VERY classy Afternoon Drinking.

Summer's Here: Yay and Pah Says Fair-Minded Local Girl

First of all, let me start by saying that OBVIOUSLY, I like this nice sunny weather as much as the next person. It's clearly FAR easier to drag yourself out of bed in the morning when the sun is beaming cheerfully through the curtains, and the thrill of buying your first ice-creams for the year in your weekly supermarket run can under no circumstances be underestimated.

But. An unseasonably early run of temperate climate conditions is not ALL good news, and in the interests of the fair, balanced journalism for which I am internationally renowned, I feel it is up to me to try to counteract a Twitter timeline that currently consists almost entirely of people using the words "yippee", "lovely" and "gorgeous" in only minorly varying combinations. Here are a few of the significant downsides to all of these Spring-time shenanigans:

1. Sunny weather's poor inability to differentiate between a weekend and a school day. There are not really any problems, as far as I can see, with having nice weather on a day you're not working. For me, those days are Saturday and Sunday, and very nice they were too. However, as I have spent the whole of yesterday and today teaching in a stuffy classroom with a window the approximate size of a postage stamp (presumably to discourage any ideas students might have about escaping through the window whilst my back is turned, perhaps engaged in writing a particularly tricky spelling on the board), I have not really benefitted from this. Bright pink students coming into the room wearing shorts and exclaiming about how nice it is outside do NOT help matters.

2. Lack of communication between blazing sun and unhelpfully earthy contents of weekly vegetable box. Now, I'm very fond of root vegetables. Very fond. And yet, you'd think Mother Nature would send some kind of communication between the sky and the earth, giving a basic heads-up that hot weather is on the way and thereby avoiding a sorrowful scenario in which one wishes to make a light frisky salad, but has to do so only equipped with swede, carrots and parsnips.

3. Difficult sartorial decisions. It's all well and good being a million degrees by lunchtime - what about the dangerously nippy walk across the carpark at seven thirty in the morning? There are three possible options here: wear nice thick winter tights, which will be unbearably hot and uncomfortable by lunchtime; go daringly bare-legged, which will necessitate a virtual sprint to the office (and don't even THINK about stopping for petrol) but will pay off later; or my own personal choice of wearing tights and then whipping them off mid-morning. The only downside to this particular manoeuvre that I have discovered thus far is the look of shock and terror on the face of the only male member of staff in the office at the female disrobement unfolding before his startled eyes.

4. Garden guilt complex. Now, obviously I'm fortunate to have a garden, but as it spends a good 95% of the year making me feel guilty, lazy and neglectful, this is something of a double-edged sword. In fact, the only time my garden looks nice is when it's been snowing, and all offending eyesores are smoothed into a perfect white blanket. Luckily, for most of winter it's entirely possible to ignore the garden altogether and have another glass of wine instead; however, whilst it's clearly lovely to be able to hang one's washing on the line again, having to climb over a stack of dead weeds and last year's tomato plants to even reach the lawn brings it home loud and clear that work needs to be done.

*makes note to commence nagging Mr Liz re: garden*

5. Inability to stay at home and get anything done, ever. I'm aware that certain regular readers of this blog may have (erroneously) come to the conclusion that I go out all the time, and maintain my superlative ligging record by only agreeing to drink wine on days that have a "y" in them; I can assure you, however, that this is most definitely not true. I spend a great many sober, industrious evenings at home, cooking healthy nutritious meals and completing intellectual, mind-improving actities; it's just I choose not to write about them. Trouble is, when the weather is like this, the mind-improving activities are the first thing to be jettisoned, to be replaced with general lying about - perhaps in a beer garden, perhaps in the park, or perhaps just on the bed with the windows open while the cat flops limply by my side.

Take last night, for example. I certainly didn't MEAN to go into Didsbury, and sit outside Felicini in the sun, drinking Happy Hour Birra Moretti at £2.85 a bottle. I DEFINITELY can't then be held responsible for being lured inside said restaurant, where we lounged on a couch as the gentle breeze wafted through the open doors, and feasted on taster platters piled high with bresaola, chorizo and prosciutto, with mozarella and rocket and shaved parmesan, with hummus and stuffed vine leaves. And no-one in their right mind would blame me for choosing to dine on zingy Crab and Coriander Linguine rather than the poor old mardy-faced swede waiting dejectedly at home. And even better, all week this most sunny of restaurants is offering a 40% discount from your food bill - just follow them on Twitter (@feliciniD) to snaffle your secret code.

So, I hope that a sense of balance is now restored regarding all this giddiness. Rest assured though, I'll be the FIRST to complain when the wet weather returns - swede casserole, anyone?

- Felicini is at 747 - 751 Wilmslow Road, Didsbury, Manchester M20 6RN; tel. 0161 445 2055.

The Red Lion, High Lane: Local Girl Defeated by Chef Stanley's Big Yorkies

A few weeks ago, an interesting contest developed between two of my favourite local chefs; a contest most helpfully broadcast over the ever-enlightening medium of Twitter. In one corner, the mighty Andrew Nutter; in the other, the pugnacious Simon Stanley. And what were they fighting about? Asparagus. Or, more specifically, which of them could get it onto their menu (and onto their punters' plates) first.

(If you're interested - and the Manchester Evening News WAS interested, enough to run a whole column on it - this particular heavyweight battle was won by Chef Stanley, whose asparagus-based offering appeared on the menu at both the Red Lion and Damson on 29th Feb.)

Anyway, such was the fallout from this epic encounter - smugness from Stanley; nonchalance from Nutter - that another public assertion both bold and brazen in nature seemed to go almost completely unnoticed. For not only has Chef Stanley been bragging about his speedy Spring veg; he's also been flaunting the size of his Yorkies. Now, as I live with a man who firmly believes that the addition of batter to hot oil is the best thing to come out of Yorkshire by a country mile, tweets such as #showusyouryorkies and #Yorkshirepuddingwars were like a red rag to a bull, and before I could say "size isn't everything" we were haring up the A6 towards High Lane to investigate the size of Chef Stanley's wares.

And here they are. What Chef Stanley was too modest to say is that he has giant EVERYTHING - Sunday lunch at The Red Lion is the most generous, joyful, EBULLIENT repast you could possibly imagine. The deal is two courses for £13.95 or three for £16.95 from a wide-ranging set menu that - with impossible blitheness of spirit - allows you to have, say, chicken liver and foie gras parfait for starters, followed by perfectly pink rib of beef, Yorkshire pudding, duck fat roast potatoes, seasonal vegetables and gravy (about which Chef Stanley also makes bold claims - I think he's simply a man who knows his worth).

Anyway, every single last mouthful was sheer joy. Sheer, jumbo, giant-sized joy. I'm not sure how hungry folk are in High Lane, but everything here is elephantine in its proportions - a bungalow-sized slab of parfait that managed to be rich yet light all at the same time, served with proper, thickly-sliced toast that - tragically - had to be shared with a disbelievingly triumphant Mr Liz, who had polished off his own corned beef hash cake in record time and was sat gazing at my plate with the air of a man who is on his second pint of ale by 2pm. The mains were spectacular - a jenga tower of succulent beef served alongside that Yorkie and three crispy-on-the-outside-fluffy-in-the-middle roast potatoes that were each of a suitable size to replace any missing monoliths at Stonehenge should this ever become necessary. Even better, there were LOADS of veg - I HATE Sunday lunches that scrimp in this area, as a proper Sabbath repast should at the very least allow you to claim you've had your five-a-day, even if this IS at a cost of approximately fifty eight thousand calories.

I'm ashamed to say that I shared my starter, gave away half my giant Yorkie (Mr Liz's buttons starting to strain slightly by this point) and couldn't manage pudding, despite having already decided on arrival that the sticky toffee pudding* had my name firmly on it. So we'll simply have to go back - great food at more than reasonable prices, served in sizes that make you feel like a wee Lilliputian who eats like a tiny bird: what's not to like?

*Simon's entirely predictable response to my epic dessert fail was to issue a tweet declaring that he makes the best sticky toffee pudding; apparently there is a pudding club on the way should you wish to put him to the test - I'll pass on further details when I have them, lest you wish to get into training for such an event.

- The Red Lion is at 112 Buxton Road, High Lane, Stockport SK6 8ED, tel. 01663 765227; take a doggy bag or a VERY hungry husband.

Great Cocktails, Top DJs and a LOVELY Bit of Purple Velvet at Uber Lounge, Castlefield

When you're young, the whole idea of being OLD seems truly, utterly terrible. You stride confidently about town in the oxblood-red Doc Martens that you think look really most desirable indeed, stopping off to drink warm beer from plastic cups in a range of dingy watering holes that never, ever have any toilet paper in the ladies. And you do this because it is FUN, whilst boring old people sit in their la-di-da restaurants and posh wine bars, happy with their dull little lives because, really, they are so old they may as well be dead (i.e. they are older than THIRTY).

And then, you become one of these really old, dull people. The ones who eat at proper restaurants rather than trying to share a Rusholme curry between four people at three in the morning; who drink in bars where there are comfy seats, and toilets with functioning locks on the doors, and music played at a level that still allows you to have a nice chat with the people you have chosen to spend some time with. And what your eighteen-year-old self would never in a million years believe is that being old is truly, utterly fabulous.

My eighteen-year-old self would have HATED the Uber Lounge, the new cocktail bar in Castlefield owned by the folk behind Bohemia and Twisted Med. And she would have hated it for all the reasons I liked it so much when we visited last week. First of all, it's tucked away under the arches in a formerly quiet part of town that now boasts a fine array of eateries and drinkeries (she would NEVER have ventured so far from Oxford Road, lest someone try to charge her more than a pound a pint). And to be fair, the drinks here are not cheap: my favourite - the Watermelon Cascade pictured here in all of its one-of-your-five-a-day-surely glory - comes from the list of Champagne Cocktails priced at £8.95 a go (and I fear I could drink many, many of these, and then have to face up to telling Mr Liz I'd spent the mortgage money entirely on sparkle-based goods). Unfortunately, though, these kind of prices are pretty much standard now for city centre cocktails, and there are plenty of Classics (including another old friend, the Mojito) for a reasonable £6.95.

Even better is the decor (well, if you like purple, which I do). The unassuming flight of stairs that leads from the ground floor entrance suddenly opens up into what can only be described as a haven of lavender loveliness, of luscious lilacness, of perfect plum, of amazing amethyst (OK, OK *steps away from the thesaurus*) - it wouldn't have gone with the oxblood-red DMs at ALL. And, being an old person, I very much enjoyed the comfort of the plush booth-style seating and the attentiveness of the lovely staff in bringing over drinks and sparing my weary old bones the effort of upward movement. There is also a lovely outdoor terrace, but as I had neglected to bring a blanket for my knees I was sadly unable to venture outside lest I catch my death of cold.

So my eighteen-year-old self's loss is my gain - another top-quality drinking den in Manchester's ever-growing crown. But then, let's face it - with her oxblood-red Doc Martens and her lousy taste in beer she really wouldn't have been welcome here anyway.

- Uber Lounge is open Thursday to Sunday from 7pm till late, and can be found at Arch 9, Catalan Square, Manchester M3 4RU; tel. 0161 8397099.

The Mark Addy Gourmet Evening February 2012: No Romance, No Proposals, but some VERY Tight Jeans

I imagine that February 29th is a pretty scary day for unmarried menfolk who happen to be in a relationship. Either they are madly, deeply, desperately in love, and spend the day moping winsomely, hoping upon hope for a proposal from their beloved; or they would much rather acquire a new lawn mower than a mother-in-law, and spend the day hiding at the office, or perhaps adding a new coat of varnish to the fence in a bid to be out the house as much as possible. One thing I'm fairly sure of is that most women would NOT book two places at The Mark Addy monthly Gourmet Evening in order to pop the question, no doubt knowing of chef Robert Owen Brown's penchant for serving up entire pig heads - hardly conducive to a romantic evening (unless you are a lady pig, with an eye for a quiet partner). In the end, this month's menu was fairly restrained - the brains that had apparently been ordered mercifully had not turned up, so instead we ate this little lot.

1. Morecambe Bay Shrimp and Sea Urchin Soup. One of the great delights of The Mark Addy Gourmet Evening is to take a picture of whatever bonkers combination has tickled ROB's fancy this month, put it on Facebook, and then return an hour or so later to peruse the excited/ indignant/ horrified thread that will have run wild whilst you were away. This particular course, served inside an empty sea urchin, prompted much discussion, with metaphors ranging from hedgehog to, um, hairy bollock. It was actually delicious - an intensely fishy broth that tasted of 1980s seaside holidays, although a lack of small spoons meant we had to drink it through a straw in the manner of a Vic Reeves' Big Night Out sketch: "round about this time of night, I like to slip a straw into a sea urchin"...inDEED.

2. Rose Veal Pate. Veal is a much misunderstood meat - anything that involves perceived cruelty to cute, baby animals is likely to be controversial - but rose veal is a natural by-product of the dairy industry and is produced to the highest welfare standards; and as I've said before, you either eat animals and the associated dairy products, or you don't. I do, and so does ROB; thus this gorgeous pate was rich with cream and butter in a tribute to the animal that made it, and served with crispy melba toast in a tribute to, erm, bread products.

3. Ferreted Rabbit with Wild Mushrooms. As their name suggests, these Flopsies had been garnered by popping little furry ferrets down the rabbit holes and then catching the fleeing bunnies in a net; what the description does NOT tell you is that this dish was actually the world's poshest vol-au-vent - a well of flaky pastry filled to the brim with a creamy rabbit-and-mushroom mixture that we would have been eating at parties in the 1970s, had we known such a thrilling possibility was within our grasp *demands re-enactment of ALL childhood birthday parties, only with better food*

4. Gurnard Tail with Thyme, Wild Garlic and Salford Ham. Now, the main course at the Addy Gourmet Evening is ALWAYS meat, so this one represented something of a departure (well, that or ROB had brain fricasse planned for us - unlucky, eh *wipes brow in relief*). To be fair, gurnard is quite a meaty fish anyway, and was wrapped up snugly in Salford's own version of Parma ham for this classy dish; even classier when you consider that all the staff had been out collecting the wild garlic in bin bags just hours earlier. NB I will NOT repeat what a crude-minded friend said this picture reminded her of *disapproving face*

5. Timperley Early Rhubarb Fool. Unusually for me, the dessert course was my favourite course of the night, perhaps because I was already in retro mode: I grew up on gooseberry fool, so this sweet-yet-tart combination of prettily pink rhubarb swirled with thick cream and served with brittle ginger biscuits, dark with treacle, was just perfect. When this stunning course was served, ROB stopped off at our table to ask what we thought of it, no doubt expecting some pithy and insightful comment on the nature of fresh seasonal ingredients and the importance of supporting local producers. I said that the biscuits looked like Mickey Mouse ears. He left and went to another table.

6. Local Cheese. The usual straw that broke the camel's back: two types of cheese - one blue, one not and therefore ignored - crackers and butter. This is the course that always makes my jeans too tight; you'd really think I'd have learned not to eat it by now.

So, whilst ROB's lovely business partner Margaret may have been bemoaning the lack of proposals by the end of the night, the food was as good as ever, and - as usual - excellent value at £30 for six courses. Next month, for one month only, Gourmet Evening is on the last Thursday in March - and I can't go. Anyone who wishes to go along, eat hairy bollocks and write a guest post is MORE than welcome....

- The Mark Addy is on Stanley Street in Salford, Manchester, M3 5EJ; tel: 0161 832 4080; email: info@markaddy.co.uk

Jamie's Italian Restaurant Review: Manchester (Reluctantly) Falls for Jamie's Essex Charms...

So. I have to admit I was a little bit sceptical about the new Jamie's Italian restaurant that has just opened at the top of King Street. Sure, I like Jamie Oliver, with his admirably "can-do" attitude to social reform, his proud upholding of family values, and - most importantly - his foolproof recipe for honey banana pancakes, for which Mr Liz bays loudly and lustily pretty much every weekend. But would Manchester really welcome the arrival of the latest outpost of the Oliver Empire? This is a city that prides itself on its individuality after all, and doesn't always take kindly to incomers: here, we fly the flag for all that is good, and unique, and NORTHERN, whether that be the North Star Deli home-made black pudding that appeared in these very pages last week, or the latest Robert Owen Brown six-courser that will appear in these very pages by the weekend. Up here, if a local pig innocently wanders past, we eat it - all of it. Honestly, how much do we need the 26th branch of the all-conquering Essex boy's chain of eateries? Manchester doesn't take kindly to finishing second in anything, let alone being ranked alongside the very last letter of the alphabet.

And yet. As a Northern import myself I felt duty bound to give the new restaurant a chance (well, that and an overwhelming urge to trough an enormous meal - although in a professional manner, obv), and the experience that Jamie's Italian served up last night has forced me to eat every single last doubt, along with one of the finest meals I've had for a very long time. First things first: the location. There has been much talk of how the old Midland Bank building might look after its conversion to an eatery, and the evidence seen here hopefully gives an idea of how well this has been done: this is an impressive space that makes full use of the original features already in place. We sat up on the small mezzanine level which, although quite crowded, afforded spectacular views across the old banking hall (which, presumably, never used to have a bar in the middle with pigs hanging from it) and the hoards of hungry diners scoffing all that appeared before them. These photographs, by the way, are provided courtesy of the selfless Mr Liz, who was allowed to come along on the proviso that he bring his big camera (technical name) with him *surreptitiously wipes small smear of chilli jam or similar from posh case*

I'd made the mistake of looking at the online menu during one of my routine never-too-early-to-think-about-food moments at approximately 10am on the day of dining, a fatal error when there's not a single thing on the aforementioned selection that you don't want to eat there and then, that very minute: I'm not exaggerating when I say I've already chosen which dishes I want to have the next few times I go. To a certain extent, choice of starter on your first visit is quite easy if you're like me, and can't resist the thought of a "food plank" (although Jamie's term for it - "Seasonal Meat Antipasti" is perhaps a LITTLE classier) - a gert piece of wood perched atop two tins of tomatoes (I suspect it would be frowned upon if you prised these open with your bare hands and ate them as well) and spread with a tempting picnic of Italian meats, cheeses and pickles. Meanwhile, on the other side of the plank Mr Liz tackled a hearty plate of baked chestnut mushrooms, served in a dish lined with what I at first thought was paper but turned out upon closer inspection (by my roaming fork/mouth) to be amazingly thin, crispy bread.

For mains, I went straight for the Fritto Misto, a dish I eat pretty much every day whenever I go to Italy - mixed crispy fried fish served with a home-made tartare sauce. This is a simple dish, but needs to be perfectly executed using only the very freshest fish and the lightest, crispiest coating of batter; and I have to say it was (almost) faultless - four different types of fish, including the most tender squid, playing a tantalising game of hide-and-seek amongst a nest of deep-fried vermicelli (they were actually quite poor at this - I caught every single last one). My one tiny complaint is that I would have liked another prawn - just one amongst such a generous overall portion seemed a little imbalanced. If you look closely at the picture below, you will see him near the front, shouting "I'm delicious! But alas, lonely for another plump tasty friend."

Mr Liz stuck to his normal favourite and went for the 8oz Angus sirloin steak, and very tasty it was too - cooked perfectly medium rare and served with a pile of peppery watercress that I had to eat due to Mr Liz apparently not having room for "the green stuff". We ordered sides as well - Posh Chips (with Parmesan and truffle oil) for Mr Liz and Polenta Chips for me; both were delicious, and although I'm not normally a fan of restaurants with pricey main courses charging extra for sides, my main really didn't need them, and Mr Liz's steak was good value at £16.95 anyway.

People who don't have room for the green stuff are of course not technically entitled to dessert, but as the toilets are in the basement, a good twenty-minute walk away, Mr Liz took full advantage of my absence, and I returned to find Tiramisu and an Ultimate Brownie on order (the former no doubt chosen, once again, because I don't like coffee and therefore cannot snaffle). My chocolate, raspberry and amaretto brownie was perfect - soft, squidgy, gooey...and all mine, which will teach people (Mr Liz) to order things with coffee in. All of this was washed down with a soft, plummy Montepulciano that was well-priced at £17.90 from the small but pleasingly Italian wine list. Service was friendly, striking that difficult balance between informal and professional, with staff who actually knew and cared about the food they were serving.

So, will I stop going to small, independent, proudly Northern restaurants? No. But I will eat here, again and again - this is an unpretentious and well-priced sort of place, full of cheery folk having a great night out, with a menu crammed with things that people actually want to eat. If anyone has the power to hold back the march of the mighty Oliver Empire, I'm afraid it really isn't me.

- Jamie's Italian is at 100 King Street, Manchester M2 4WU; tel: 0161 241 3901

Top Night at The Brew House, Altrincham; Local Girl (Brave) Doesn't Even Feel Homesick

Honestly; never let it be said that I am not adventurous of spirit. This week I am a foot-weary traveller with a passport full of stamps; a hoary old wanderer with a knotted handkerchief tied up with memories of the new and exciting worlds that lie at the very edge of the limits of human experience. Yep: this week, I have been out of Didsbury, TWICE.

First, it was Chorlton. Then, last night, even further: Altrincham. And I didn't even have a MAP. There was of course a sterling reason for such unprecedented levels of adventuring derring-do: The Brew House, the specialist world beers bar and one of my most favourite places on the planet, is there rather than here. If you yourself are considering such a foray, here are the pros and cons of such a venture:

Pros:

1. The Brew House is a gorgeously warm sort of a place for a chilly evening, like a welcoming red cavern lit only by flickering candlelight, the glint of bottles, and the wholesome love of beer that pervades the entire premises. True, they have painted over the Tin Tin pictures that used to adorn the walls since rebranding from the exclusively Belgian Le Trappiste, but I'll forgive them on the basis that they now sell a wider range of beers than they used to. And this is a good thing, because...

2. ...boys like beer, and when they are permitted to have beer, they become genial, and consider you to be the finest wife in the universe. This leaves you free to chat happily with female friends over a decent bottle of red from the wine list whilst they all discuss dull Man Things (one of the party had recently built a Man Cave in his garden, which obviously prompted much debate) and drink terrifyingly strong beer from test-tube-shaped glasses.

3. The music is amazing. Owner Martin clearly understands the joy inherent in a good mix tape, and chooses to play Buzzcocks, Squeeze (Up the Junction, to which I sang along in a loud and heartfelt manner, much to the delight of all other customers), Oasis and Happy Mondays - amongst others - to his grateful and discerning clientele.

4. Martin also knows everything there is to know about beer, and is happy to make recommendations and chat with geeky boys eager to learn more about the fine art of opening a bottle of something and pouring it down your throat. He even makes it sound poetic, describing a particularly malodorous beer as having the aroma of a Manchester bus shelter. And I suspect Mr Liz will be reminscing for years about "the night Mr Brew House showed me his cellar" - apparently it's, ahem, impressively well-stocked *pictures grandchildren looking bored and whispering "oh no...not this story again" to each other*

5. They now sell bar food that consists entirely of pies.

6. And if you don't fancy a pie (in which case you are probably reading this blog by accident anyway), you can always pop to curry house Dilli for tea. This is what we did, and I can't help thinking that next time I go for a curry and am NOT presented with a whole duck breast amid a sea of perfect sauce it's all going to be terribly disappointing. The duck breast was just one of the extraordinary dishes on the current fancy dan special menu for the Rajasthani Food Festival that runs till the end of March - don't forget to take along your Brew House receipt for a discount from your bill *money saving expert face*

7. Finally - and don't underestimate the importance of this one - if you give them a ring before you go they will let you reserve a table, meaning that you can wear your very best impractical Taxi Shoes secure in the knowledge that you won't have to stand uncomfortably all evening with a slightly sad, martyred expression on your face - much better for everyone.

Cons:

1. It's located somewhere I do not live.

Verdict: case closed.

- The Brew House is at 18 Shaws Road, Altrincham WA14 1QU; tel 0161 941 1981

- Dilli is at 60 Stamford New Road, Altrincham WA14 1EE; tel 0161 929 7484 /0161 927 9219

Triumphant Pig Night at North Star Deli's Join Us For Supper; Local Girl Upsets Morrissey

When I was a teenager - a terribly earnest, slightly mardy-faced one at that - I spent a brief period as a vegetarian. This was a well thought-out, committed sort of decision, based almost entirely on a general fondness for animals and a desire to wear my Meat is Murder t-shirt without too many pangs of guilt; and obviously, I HAD to wear my Meat is Murder t-shirt, as Morrissey would NEVER notice me if I didn't.

Thankfully, this stint proved to be short-lived, brought to a premature end by the salty wiles of a bacon sandwich and the - eventual - understanding that I probably wasn't really his type anyway. And Mozzer's loss is my gain, for last night saw the return of North Star Deli's monthly Supper Club; a triumphant, flag-waving return that I shall always choose to remember simply as "Pig Night", the night that Percy nobly gave his life so that he could be cooked three ways for a deli-ful of hungry diners. But I get ahead of myself...this is the full rundown of what we had:

Starter: Home-made stout black pudding, served with Yorkshire forced rhubarb, parsnip puree and crisps, air-dried ham & watercress. I must hang my head in shame and confess that for many, many years I eschewed black pudding, claiming that I didn't like it when in reality I had never tried it and just didn't like the thought of it. Then I married a Northerner and found that, actually, black pudding is DELICIOUS. Last night we were spoiled, as the home-made offering was served up alongside more familiar fare from The Real Black Pudding Company for comparative purposes - opinions at table were divided, but I preferred the home-made option with its crumbly texture and delicately fennel-spiced flavour; he's the one on the right in the picture above. I ate them both, mind, just in the interests of being entirely fair to both entrants *noble face*. It must also be noted at this point that one of my dining companions - a normally most pleasant lady - elected to have the vegetarian menu (including veggie black pudding), and I shall therefore say no more about her in the unlikely event I fail to completely mask my disapproval *cat's bum face*.

Main: Porcus Tamworth pig done 3 ways - crispy pork belly with spiced apple, tenderloin and braised home-made faggot, cider fondant potato and red cabbage. Yes, REALLY. As a North Star regular, I think this was my favourite main course to date, with every item on the plate utterly, ludicrously delicious, from the rib-sticking unctiousness of the neat square of pork belly to the warm spiciness of the complementing apple slices and the earthiness of the accompanying roast beetroot and carrot...the only disharmony here came from the undignified competition to be the most irresistible thing on the plate*. And we licked our plates clean with clear consciences, as SJ, the rare breed pig farmer from Porcus in Todmorden who supplied the porcine ingredients for the repast - or "The Pig Lady" as I fear she is often known - was happy to tell us of the wonderful life that Percy had lived, before we all ate him.

And finally, Dessert: Pineapple tart tatin with ginger ice cream, a coconut tuille and pineapple & mint salsa. Lovely, just lovely - a light-yet-chewy pastry disc contrasting beautifully with the sweet warmth of the ice cream and the minty tang of the salsa. And the fact that I have had to type the word "pineapple" twice in naming it suggests a high fruit content; ergo, an extremely healthy end to the meal.

The theme of this month's Supper Club was "Northern Stars" - named after the all-conquering team of SJ, North Star chef Ben and genial foodie Joby who wiped the floor with some upstart pretenders on a recent episode of the BBC2 food quiz ‘A Question of Taste’ - and showcased the very best Northern suppliers and ingredients; a commitment to seasonal local produce that really sums up all that is right and good about this lovely deli. If next month's Cheshire-themed extravaganza is half as impressive as this one, we're all in for a treat - keep an eye on the deli's webpage for further details, as there's no doubt that owner Deanna will come up with another amazing menu.

*The eventual, worthy winner was the joyously hefty faggot, a sturdy shotput of flavour that I could frankly have eaten many more of. I have learned one valuable lesson though - do not, repeat NOT, innocently start off a faggot-related Facebook thread just before you go out, as by the time you come home it will have absolutely RUN RIOT...

- North Star Deli is at 418 Wilbraham Road Manchester, M21 0SD.

Jamie's Italian Comes to King Street, Manchester; Local Girl Waits, Hungrily

Give or take a few months, Jamie Oliver and I are pretty much exactly the same age. And by a huge coincidence, our career trajectories to date are also virtually identical: he has been on television since he was 22 years old, published over a dozen trillion-billion selling cook books, single-handedly rescued the nation's school children from the evil turkey twizzler, married a model and had four gorgeous children, AND opened a string of successful restaurants bearing his name; whereas I...well, I must surely have also done something noteworthy in all that time.

Now, in a bid to shame me and my profligate life still further, Jamie is on the verge of opening his latest venture ON MY PATCH. The new Jamie's Italian is set to open in the old Midland Bank building at the top of King Street on Monday 20th February, and promises fresh pasta made daily on the premises and an ever-changing seasonal menu. Jamie does not clarify whether the food will be prepared and cooked to the same standard that I myself whip up my regular favourites from my own be-splattered copy of Jamie's Italy, but it is entirely understandable that he should leave himself something to strive for.

The new restaurant looks set to be a mighty affair, spread over all three floors of the Grade II listed building: the ground floor banking hall (which apparently retains many of the original features, including marble columns and mahogany wall panelling - much like my own house, although I don't like to boast about how much I have achieved so far in my short life), a mezzanine level, and the basement vault room which will house a private area seating twelve diners. In a well-timed publicity coup that other restaurateurs could only dream of, the contents of this bank vault have hit the headlines in spectacular fashion this week, with the old safety deposit boxes yielding up treasure including gold, guns and - best of all - Joy Division and New Order master tapes; I like to think of the late great Tony Wilson putting all this together years ago as his own mischievous version of a Manchester time capsule to be discovered at some future date. Anyway, the total value of this haul is estimated at over £1 million pounds; probably similar to the value of the contents of my own cellar, should I trouble myself to work it all out.

*pretends has cellar*

*shoots warning glance at Mr Liz, who looks puzzled*

There'll be a full review of the new Manchester Jamie's Italian once I've been there and plunged my greedy face into a big bowl of pasta; for now, I'll leave you with the words of the man himself, who has this to say: “The Manchester restaurant is going to be one of the jewels in the Jamie’s Italian crown. It’s a fantastic building in a vibrant, exciting city and I know the people of Manchester are going to love it. I’ve worked hard with my team to make sure we’ve got incredible food but at affordable prices...I hope one day, if I keep working hard, I'll be as successful as that nice lady who writes the Things to Do in Manchester blog - it humbles me to think that we are the same age*"

*last sentence not based on actual words uttered by Mr Oliver but a reconstruction of what he might have been thinking.

- Jamie's Italian is at 100 King Street, Manchester M2 4WU.

The Woman in Black: Local Girl Not, Ahem, Frightened AT ALL

Now obviously, with hindsight, I should have known better. Some years ago, I read what I thought was a fairly innocuous little book called The Woman in Black, a mildly spooky tale by a writer - Susan Hill - whom I much admire. And then I saw it last year at The Lowry, where my smugly confident "yep! I HAVE read the book, for I am a clever literary type" face was swiftly replaced by an "oh my God, this is THE MOST FRIGHTENING TWO HOURS OF MY LIFE" expression; indeed, had there not been a break for an ice-cream and some gin, I may not have survived the experience at all.

So, clearly any person of even limited intelligence would know to avoid the new film version like the plague, particularly if that person is prone to jump a little at everyday, non-frightening occurrences such as phones ringing and think-they're-funny husbands occasionally saying "boo". But then - how scary could it be? It's a 12A for goodness sake! It has Harry Potter in it! Surely at the first sign of trouble, he can simply wave his pocket wand and everything will be OK again!

Um, well, no actually; the film turns out to be every bit as terrifying as the stage show. Harry (sorry, DANIEL) plays Arthur Kipps, a solicitor sent to Crythin Gifford (definitely a local place for local people) to sort out the papers of the recently deceased Alice Drablow. As old ladies in this kind of story are prone to do, she lived in a big old creepy house full of things that go bump in the night (or indeed at any time of day); even better, Eel Marsh House can only be accessed by crossing a causeway that often becomes completely submerged, leaving the house cut off.

So why on earth would you go there? Simple answer is, you wouldn't, and as baby-faced Kipps innocently crosses the causeway you feel like climbing aboard your chair and shouting "no! Don't you see! It's the equivalent of the teenager going into the cellar in some other horror film - stay away!" Sadly, Kipps cannot hear us, and even if he could he has no choice - he has a young son to support, and therefore cannot simply give up the house as a bad job and return to that-there London like all the villagers want him to do. Children are dying in the village in a variety of horrific ways, and the locals have no doubt that Kipps' visits to Eel Marsh House are to blame. The plucky young wizard (sorry, solicitor) must uncover the story of the mysterious figure who haunts the house (clue: it's a lady with a penchant for dark-coloured clothes) before his own frankly adorable son arrives and shares the same fate.

It's a simple story, but then the best ghost stories always are, and director James Watkins has squeezed every last ounce of spookiness from it for this film version. The middle third of the film is quite simply majestic in its use of pretty much every single horror technique in the book: thus we get fog, locked doors that mysteriously open, creepy mechanical toys who randomly decide to start bashing their cymbals together, odd reflections in mirrors...and the rocking chair - oh, the rocking chair...

If this sounds a bit cliched, well that's because it is, but it doesn't stop it from being properly, edge-of-your-seat scary - if you can look out of a window at night without palpitations during the week after seeing it, then you're made of sterner stuff than I. There are a couple of weak links: Daniel Radcliffe is not entirely convincing in a role that requires him to play an adult with responsibilities of his own, and writer Jane Goldman's new ending will not please everyone - although I quite liked it, feeling she'd made the story her own whilst respecting the spirit (no pun intended) of the original.

Oh, and one final thought - is it just me, or is Ciaran Hinds a funny colour in this movie? I can't help thinking that DI Anna Travis would never have fallen for his gruff, gnarly charms in Above Suspicion had he apparently been painted such a deep shade of mahogany. Anyway, do go and see The Woman in Black - just get someone else to hold your popcorn for you...