Opera North's Carousel Comes to The Lowry: Local Girl's Lack of Talent Cruelly Revealed

Now, as previously noted, I am a woman of many talents - in my head, at least. I can't count the number of times I've moved an attentive audience (the cat, bribed to stay with liberal promises of Dreamies) to tears with beautiful renditions of various modern classics that are surely wasted in the confines of my own kitchen. And sometimes, I dance and pirouette my way across the floor towards the beer fridge with the natural grace and poise of an exceptionally talented gazelle.

Of course, it only takes a visit to The Lowry to see anything by Opera North to remind you what real (as opposed to delusional) talent actually looks like. This remarkable Leeds-based company have previously won a reluctant Mr Liz over to opera through their sultry, steamy Carmen, and come pretty close to converting me to Gilbert & Sullivan via their spirited Ruddigore; this week, it's the turn of Carousel, a Rodgers and Hammerstein classic that I had - inexplicably - never seen, not even the film version. And I have to admit that, reading the programme notes beforehand, the whole thing sounded pretty bizarre.

Obviously though, being Opera North, it was superlative in pretty much every way. The story is as follows: young man (the splendidly named Billy Bigelow) puts his arm round young girl (Julie Jordan - only people with alliterative names are allowed to go out with each other in THIS world) on the carousel; both are fired from their jobs as a result. Meanwhile, Julie's friend Carrie is engaged to be married to a Mr Enoch Snow - he owns a fishing boat and is therefore, ahem, quite a catch *smirks at own wit*. Julie is not proving so lucky in her relationship: Billy misses the female attention he used to get on the carousel and has a hankering to go back - until Julie gives him some news that forces him to rethink how he can best fulfil his responsibilities to his wife.

I'll say no more of the plot, just in case you've never seen it, but suffice to say that the second half includes a clam bake (why have I never had one of these? why?), a trip to heaven and a mid-section entitled simply "Ballet" - and it still works. This is partly because the songs are great - I know my work colleagues certainly enjoyed the selection of "Songs from the Shows" I performed for them the following day - and include the infuriatingly catchy June is Bustin' Out All Over and a fairly well-known ditty called You'll Never Walk Alone ("typical Scousers," commented Mr Liz, controversially, "they nick EVERYTHING"*). The whole cast was as pitch-perfect as you'd expect, with standout performances from Joseph Shovelton as Enoch and Claire Boulter as Carrie.

*I take NO responsibility for this remark, or any other made by errant gentlemen with whom I am connected.

The staging was beautiful, with notable scenes including the opening number on the carousel, the scenes set in heaven, and the ballet of the second half. A key scene just after the interval perhaps lacks the required violence that would make it truly convincing, but the packed house was certainly most appreciative of the whole thing, and it speaks volumes about Opera North's peerless reputation that they can pretty much fill such a large venue on a Wednesday night.

And me? Well, I've discovered where my true talents lie: sitting outside Lime, drinking Prosecco and eating olives, and then checking my watch and having to SPRINT across the square two minutes before the performance starts. It's nice to know that we're ALL good at something...

- Carousel is on at The Lowry until Saturday 26th May and then spins away to prepare for its residency at London's Barbican Theatre in August and September - for full details visit the Opera North website.

Mr Trotter's Pork Crackling Dinner AND 30 Years of the Hacienda: Local Girl May as Well MOVE IN to Harvey Nichols Manchester

Now, I've not yet spoken to the powers-that-be, but it strikes me that I have come up with a most lucrative premise for an exciting new TV show - I'm pretty sure it will spark a bidding war and more or less line my coffers for the rest of my life. Loosely based on the "Dancing with the Stars" format, my own, thoroughly original show is provisionally entitled "Accidentally Hob-Nobbing with the Stars", and features a jaunty young girl (preferably me - I do own the format, after all) hanging around a classy venue, drinking wine and waiting to bump into famous people.

And based on this week's experiences, the most promising venue looks to be the Manchester branch of Harvey Nichols; which, coincidentally, is a most convenient location for me to get to for filming, should I be appointed to star in the show. To wit, consider the following evidence:

Thursday night saw the Menswear department transformed into a splendidly middle-class, middle-aged tribute to the Hacienda - frankly, I'd go clubbing a lot more these days if I could dance in a corner of Harvey Nichols, drinking Prosecco and eating mini cones of fish and chips, between the hours of 6 and 9pm. The event marked the start of the 30th birthday celebrations in honour of the legendary club's original opening in 1982 - Ellesse have produced a limited edition polo shirt with buttons made from bits of the Hacienda building (who kept these bits? and did they think they might come in useful as buttons for polo shirts a few years down the line? that's foresight at its FINEST). Mr Liz saw the cost and refused to buy me one, citing the reason that, apparently, polo shirts "don't suit" me rather than 'fessing up to the actual, "yes, I AM too mean" reason. Anyway, there was a fantastic Q & A session with Peter Hook, Graeme Park, Ange Matthews and Anton Razak, chaired by John Robb, followed by DJ sets from Hooky and Parky (I can use these nicknames as am budding TV star) - a fine night was had by all, although I must remember not to ask some bloke who turns out to be Peter Hook to move out the way of a photograph I am taking when the film crew are actually present.

Friday night looked similarly promising - an event I previewed a few weeks ago with breathless anticipation had finally arrived, in the form of the Mr Trotter's Pork Crackling Dinner hosted in the Second Floor Restaurant by Tom Parker Bowles and Matthew Fort. To be honest, I'd have needed the film crew with me from the very start for this one: the lift took an age to come down from the second floor, and when it eventually did arrive, it was packed to the very gills with a fleet of perma-tanned, middle-aged American men sheltering a precious cargo in their midst - a twinkly eyed, curly haired, nut brown Barry Manilow. "Ooh!" said a friend, later. "Did you start singing that you were Lola, a show girl?" The brief answer to this is, no, I did not: firstly, I didn't think of it in time, and secondly, I can't be expected to perform when the cameras aren't there - I shall save it all for when the show is actually in the bag.

So, after the bonus Barry, on to the main business of the evening. Food writers Matthew Fort and Tom Parker Bowles have brought their new brand of pork scratchings to the Harvey Nichols Foodmarket, a momentous occasion suitably marked with a special porcine dinner thrown in Mr Trotter's honour. We kicked off with drinks in the Brasserie bar where - splendidly - gorgeous staff glided round bearing elegant trays containing bags of Mr Trotter's scratchings for us to delicately rummage in; I'm no expert on pork scratchings, but these struck me as a highly superior breed - generously sized, tasting of pork rather than just salt and fat, and with just the right amount of crunch (no-one wants to lose a filling in front of a respected food critic, after all). It also turns out that, in the hands of a cheffy genius like Sam Everett, they can be seamlessly incorporated into a three course gourmet dinner (always useful to know, in the unlikely event of actually managing to prise any bag of scratchings from Mr Liz's eager paws) - this is what we had:

Starter: Scallops served with black pudding, Mr Trotter's Pork Scratching and herb salad. Now, it takes real imagination to understand that a pork scratching can be used to make a devastatingly delicious crispy topping for a tender, fleshy young scallop as seen here. And yes, how cute is that little roll of black pudding? You may also be unsurprised to know that the accompanying sauce was SO delicious I was forced to run my finger round the plate whilst the imaginary film crew were busy doing some general location shots.

Main: Pork loin, served with confit pork belly, pig's cheek hash brown and a Mr Trotter’s Pork Scratching. This clearly wasn't a meal for non pork-eaters, but for me, this dish really showed off how versatile a meat this is - soft, pillowy loin perched atop a meltingly unctuous slab of pork belly, guarded by perky little piggy towers. Spectacular.

Dessert: Baked egg custard, served with Mr Trotter's Pork Scratching Brittle, chocolate mousse and maple granite. In truth, this was the one we'd been waiting for - how would pork scratchings fare in a sweet course? Actually, of course, it's perfectly logical - anyone who's ever had salted caramel will instantly understand that sprinkling crushed pork scratching on top of a thick layer of chocolate mousse can only be a good thing: a sort of savoury, porky popping candy if you will. I think Muller Corners are missing a trick with this one, and look forward to see Pig Corners joining the existing Fruit version in the near future *quickly patents idea*.

But, I know what you're thinking - that the food sounds all well and good, but where are the stars? Well, first of all there was Matthew Fort, gamely making a circuit of the restaurant to talk piggy goodness with everyone, clearly mindful of his responsibilities as host of the event. And then there was Tom Parker Bowles, who plonked himself down at our table (I suppose actually it's entirely possible that we were sitting at HIS table) and proceeded to entertain us for three hours with a number of stories that I can't possibly repeat here other than to say he likes Game of Thrones and enjoys being told he bears a passing resemblance to Kiefer Sutherland.

So, I think you'll agree that my fledgling career as top TV mogul is off to a promising start - with one disappointing omission. I've still not met Mr Trotter, but don't worry, I'll track him down - and this time I'll make sure the cameras are rolling...

- Harvey Nichols is at 21 New Cathedral Street Manchester M1 1AD.

Holland's Pie Delivery: Local Girl Now Fully Indoctrinated into WORLD OF PIE

Now, much as we may like to pretend that we care not a jot for what others think of us, I suspect that actually, most of us care very much indeed. And it can come as something of a slap in the face when we find out the bitter reality of how people truly perceive us: take this blog, for example. Clearly, I had hoped to present myself as a highly discerning, cultured individual with impeccably refined tastes - a knowledgeable connoisseur, a doyenne of sophisticated living. And yet. An email arrived a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, that indicated that perhaps, just perhaps, others see me differently.

For the email was from Holland's Pies, purveyors of "proper pies and puds" (although I quite like the concept of an "improper", minxy sort of pie), proudly produced in Lancashire for over 160 years. Would I like to try them? Well, once I'd come to terms with the fact that rather than the ethereal, waif-like Florence figure I'd hoped, I am clearly coming across as a good sturdy, pie-eating sort of girl, I decided that YES, I would. Because unless I've had one at a chippy without realising it, I've lived in Manchester for the best part of twenty years now and NEVER HAD a Holland's pie. This is clearly a serious offence for a girl married to a Wiganer - I'm fairly sure divorces have been granted over smaller matters than this; indeed, Twitter was aghast when I confessed to my lack of pie-eating experience, collectively deciding that I probably hadn't had any kind of childhood at all (or indeed, perhaps any kind of adulthood either).

Anyway, Holland's promised to send some pies, and I thought no more about it until last Friday, when I came home from work and was met at the door by a boy with a face full of eager news. They're here, he whispered in a voice simultaneously hushed by awe and quivering with repressed, disbelieving joy, come and see. Tugging eagerly at my sleeve, he led me into the kitchen, where an air of reverence pervaded and Mr Liz was so overcome that words failed him entirely and he could only point at the worktop with an arm that I SWEAR was trembling slightly. For here was a bag, a CLOTH BAG, proudly proclaiming HOLLAND'S PIES and containing a whole FAMILY of pastry-based goods. It was hard to know what excited him more - the pies themselves, or the bag that SPOKE of pie...

So, we had pies for tea. The sausage roll was consumed as a "starter", a kind of carbohydrate warm-up, followed by the Meat Pie (beef and pork), the Steak & Kidney Pudding and the Cheese & Onion Pie - please don't worry that this meal sounds unhealthy, as I served it with carrots, thereby negating any potentially adverse effects. For me, the Cheese & Onion was a clear winner - essentially Northern fondue in a pastry case - while Mr Liz preferred the meaty options. I think the Meat Pie might be an acquired taste that my Southern-raised sensibilities are not yet ready for, but I look forward to trying the Steak Pie (maybe not the Potato and Meat one) that has been secretly stashed in the freezer to prevent over-excited boys eating themselves into a meat coma at one sitting. These pies were sent to us free, but we were not pressurised into saying nice things about them - Holland's genuinely seem very confident in their own product, and are keen for more people to try them.

So, whilst I'm obviously still a junior, trainee sort of pie-eater, I feel that I've completed another stage of my application for a permanent Mancunian visa. And if you see a jaunty boy out and about with a Holland's Pie bag, then do give Mr Liz a wave.

New Menu Launched at Gusto Didsbury: Local Girl Breathes a Sigh of Relief AND Finds Cheap Cocktails at The Sanctuary

By and large, I am not a big fan of change. On the whole, I enjoy things being the same: I like, for example, that the same friend cooks the same meal on the same weekend in December every year, even serving the same cocktails with EXACTLY the same results (she makes a mean Amaretto Sour) - if it were to be any different, well, it would just be wrong. Similarly, I will argue until my dying day that certain types of tea drunk at different times of day really do taste better in one particular cup as opposed to another - and if my first cup of the day was served in the mug I like in the evening, well, all HELL would break loose. Probably.

So when a restaurant to which I am already most partial announces a new menu, I can't pretend this isn't potentially an area of some concern to me: what if they get rid of all my favourite things? What if life is NEVER THE SAME AGAIN? All these feelings and more ran through my fevered frame when Gusto - the estimable Italian chain to whose Didsbury branch I am a regular and gluttonous visitor - launched its new menu this week. WHAT IF THERE WAS NO CALAMARI?

Well, obviously it was all fine; better than fine in fact. The new menu has kept all the old favourites whilst introducing some new, improved dishes alongside as a kind of bonus; thus, for example, the starters remain largely unchanged, but their ranks are now swelled - thrillingly - by the introduction of half-size portions of all the pasta dishes (although this does now facilitate the very worrying possibility that I will get into the habit of eating pasta, followed by pasta, leading my thighs to expand to the size of China whilst an army of whippet-thin Didsburyites just have a half-portion as their main meal.)

However, I am getting ahead of myself. The evening began with cocktails: it was a dry, sunny evening for once, so a metaphorical casting-off of galoshes was performed, to be replaced with a chi-chi scarf purchased in Sorrento draped fetchingly around a thirsty neck that was just ready and waiting to celebrate the stopping of rain with the guzzling of drink. Drinking in Didsbury can be a pricy business on any day of the week, so we were impressed to find that The Sanctuary (next door to the new Tesco, about which I will say NOTHING) has launched a new cocktail menu which is available as two-for-the-price-of-one all day, every day - nice menu, too, featuring some interesting and well-made selections. Here you see the Dib Dab (a lemony, gin-based delight that Mr Liz considered manly enough to be acceptable) and the Spiced Raspberry Mohito, made with Chambord and more than a healthy dash of rum. As both of these cost just £5.25 and we'd bagged a lovely squashy, comfy sofa, there is a very real possibility that had we not been booked in at Gusto, we might just have accidentally stayed here all night.

Luckily, we did make it out of that sofa, as Gusto was on fine form. This place is always busy - it's a sign of quality, I think, that Gusto and Felicini are both consistently well-supported despite being pretty much opposite each other - and last night was no exception, full to bursting with lovely, cheerful, noisy people chattering away over a bottle or two of Primitivo. We browsed the new menu over olives, and then went for the following:

Starters: we decided to share here - obviously we had to have a portion of calamari as it's actually ILLEGAL to visit Gusto and not do so, but we also tried one of the new dishes: gnocchi with slow roast pork, cherry tomatoes, pesto and rocket at £5.50 for a half portion. The calamari was as good as ever: melt-in-the-mouth-tender squid encased in light, crisp batter - and it's a relief to note that, as ever, I ended up with slightly burnt fingers from trying to eat one the second they arrived on the table - plus ca change, eh? Our bold experimentalism on the gnocchi was rewarded with dainty little dumplings drenched luxuriantly in a pesto so fresh it made the whole dish taste like the healthiest meal on the planet, studded with teasingly elusive shreds of tender pork and the odd perky tomato. My only criticism here is that I prefer my gnocchi a little larger; this is purely because I am a long way from being small and dainty myself though, so perhaps they should consider following TopShop's lead and introducing a "Tall" range of gnocchi alongside the existing "Petite" model *helpful marketing/cheffy face*

Mains: now, Mr Liz always has Diavolo pizza at Gusto. Always. Indeed, so often does he order it as a takeout on the Monday nights I work late that he was instantly recognised by a member of staff openly astonished to see him actually eating something else. For, reader, he DID have something else - albeit still a pizza. The "Al Salsiccia" is one of the new ones (the "Marinara" is the other), and is topped with home smoked Italian sausage, shredded pork and mozzarella - it's definitely a boy's pizza, this one, loaded with so much meaty goodness that some of it slithered off onto the plate, where it was quickly snaffled by an evil/enterprising* wife.

*delete as applicable according to viewpoint.

My own choice was one of the new dishes in the meat section: marinated rump of lamb with spinach and aubergine cannelloni. The lamb was very good - caramelised and sticky on the outside, perfectly pink as requested on the inside - but the real revelation here was the cannelloni: one long tube filled with a mixture of cubed aubergine, mushrooms and pine-nuts and then covered with a tomato and marscarpone sauce. The sauce was rich without being cloying, and the vegetables had reached that admirable stage of cooking where each retains some bite and independence whilst simultaneously melding softly together. It's a pity this doesn't appear in its own right as part of the pasta selection - I would order it time and and time again, even without the lamb. We also had a side order of fried courgettes: shards of soft vegetable made entirely unhealthy by the application of batter and salt and - therefore - utterly, utterly delicious.

Finally, to pudding. I have written before in praise of the Bombolini, and would normally have never looked beyond their enticingly doughy appeal had I not earlier spotted another table ordering a dessert that looked - quite frankly - unmissable. This was the Gusto Sundae: ice cream, whipped cream, fruits and chocolate sauce, topped with a flake and a homemade biscotti emerging, phoenix-like, from the snowy masses below. This is not a cheap option at £6.95 but is easily big enough for two to share - and you have to admire a restaurant that provides both a flake (for the traditionalists) and a classy biscotti (for the, ahem, native Italians like myself). I'm afraid the picture shown here is a little over-exposed, but as it looks like this gorgeous dessert is being admired and snapped by the paparazzi, I think it is actually entirely fitting.

One last word for our fabulous waitress Fliss who - along with the rest of the staff - had bravely eaten her way through the new menu on Wednesday in order to be professionally knowledgeable about its contents. This dedicated and selfless training had clearly paid off, for she was most helpful in recommending and describing the new dishes to us.

So was it a perfect evening? No. It would have been, but I can confirm that a chi-chi Italian scarf draped fetchingly round one's neck during dinner becomes markedly less desirable if found to contain food items upon arriving home - all I can think is that Mr Liz must have PLANTED that piece of chocolate ice-cream there as a cruel joke...this would NEVER have happened to Audrey Hepburn.

-The Sanctuary is at 653 Wilmslow Road, Didsbury M20 6QZ, and Gusto is but a short stroll down the road at number 756.

Local Girl Won Over by Manchester Bank Holiday Weekend

A couple of years ago now, something happened to me that made me fall out with Manchester. In fact, there was a brief period when, had it been possible, I would have gladly moved to a small cave at the bottom of the sea and been happy never to lay eyes on the Kingdom of Mancunia ever again.

Things change though. Little by little, Manchester has wormed its way back into my good books, rather like the persistent ex-boyfriend who suddenly remembers how to treat you properly after he's messed up one too many times - Manchester knew it had overstepped the mark, and was determined to win back my affections. And win them back it has, in an all-out display of such towering loveliness that I may indeed never consider leaving ever again. In just one Bank Holiday weekend, I was able to do all of this, and the fact that I mostly had to do it all in the rain and cold is but the SMALLEST of niggles.

Saturday:

1. Heaton Moor Market. This super-cute little market has been running for over a year now, tucked away behind the estimable Kro Bar on Shaw Road, but had it not been for Twitter (the font of all knowledge) I would not have even known it existed. Here, I bought some lovely spicy chorizo from Spanish food importers Levanter (who softly strummed on a guitar whilst I browsed), some pork, Stilton and asparagus sausages, and also learned that I am incapable of walking, talking and eating meatballs all at the same time courtesy of Little Bird Catering's amazing travelling meatball stall. You can also buy coffee, cakes, crafts and (presumably) items that do NOT begin with a "c" (causages?); there is also normally a stall selling homemade scotch eggs that are apparently legendary, but - in a stroke of almost insufferable cruelty - he was unable to attend this month. Oh well - I shall just have to go again.

2. Just when you think the day can't get any better, it transpires that a friend (now even more beloved than previously) has won a bottle of El Jimador tequila with all the trimmings at The Yacht Club in a Facebook competition. So yes, the day bed that comes as part of the prize is cold, and drafty, but we are soon sporting luxuriously warm tequila coats, and dancing along with the Mexican band on the deck of this most elegant of bars. And - who knew? - it turns out that tequila slammers can be performed with virtually any fruit or vegetable item, providing one with a healthy, balanced diet even when half-cut.

3. And when your fingers have become so cold they can no longer grasp your cocktail, what better way to warm up than a short skip across Hardman Square to Southern Eleven, a cosy and welcoming place serving outrageously moreish American BBQ in hopelessly generous portions. I'm due to go again for a full review, but suffice to say that I have dreamt of the pulled pork every night ever since, and still regret the small piece of warm cornbread I was forced to leave lest the zip on my dress explode.

Sunday:

Another day, another winner - this time a lucky friend had won two tickets to the North West Spring Wine Festival at St. Peter's in Ancoats, and was looking for a wine-minded companion to accompany her *steps forward, bravely, nobly, tasting glass in hand*. Once over the initial childish thrill of drinking wine in a CHURCH, this was perfection all the way - lovely people, in a beautifully judged venue (not too many exhibitors, not too few - I was content but still standing by the end), and, most importantly, really great wine from a range of brilliant independents. AND Mr Liz picked me up afterwards, thereby saving me the indignity of being tipsy on public transport in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

Monday:

Now obviously, by this point, the thought of work was beginning to loom large; time for one last hurrah, however, as the award-winning Black Dog Ballroom's new sister bar on New Wakefield Street was offering a tempting 50% off food, and as it was becoming increasingly clear that I had no intention of cooking anything, Mr Liz cried to be allowed to go and was told YES. We perhaps didn't see it at its best - at 12.30 on a cold, wet Bank Holiday it was all but deserted - but this seems a really promising venue.

Tall and thin, the familiar Black Dog pool tables and booths line the lower floor, whilst a flight of stairs leads up to a lighter, airier top floor with a glass roof upon which the rain lashed furiously throughout our visit (indeed, the staff had to rush out and rescue the sofas from the roof terrace, so fierce was the deluge). Still, the food was decent (Mr Liz counted in sheer joy and disbelief the number of different meat items atop his Brucie Bonus pizza), the staff delightful, and the music suitably loud - nothing like a blast of the Foos to remove the last of the Wine Festival fug from your brain.

Would many other places have afforded all this in just one weekend? Manchester, you might just have convinced me to commit to you once again - as long as you keep up the good work, obviously....

Forthcoming Events at The Lowry, Salford: Opera North's Carousel and Jim White Allow Local Girl to STOP WRITING ABOUT FOOD

Quite astonishingly, come December this blog will be celebrating its fifth birthday. No-one is more surprised by its unexpected longevity than myself, for I am sadly aware that I am somewhat prone to flightiness, and boredom, and sloth, and all the other essential attributes that point firmly to a short attention span and a blog that will flicker very brightly for a couple of months before slinking quietly off to watch television instead.

That said, the blog hasn't exactly turned out as planned, having originally been envisaged as a highly organised, sleek, efficient sort of enterprise, barking succinct yet eloquently pithy comment on a range of highly intellectual cultural events. Patently, this has not happened, and you have instead been presented with a number of incoherently enthusiastic ramblings on topics ranging from food, to drink, to food - passing through an occasional musing on shoes just to ensure a bit of variety. So it is with some relief that I scan my diary and discover that - amongst all the eating and drinking - I am in fact booked in for a couple of events that might just qualify as CULTURE.

Both are at the estimable Lowry, which has long been a favourite venue of mine (and not just because it has helpfully surrounded itself with shops, restaurants and ample parking, although these do of course help). First up is Opera North's production of Carousel, which arrives hot and breathless in Salford on Wednesday 23rd May, fresh from its opening run in Leeds. I've yet to see a Rodgers & Hammerstein musical, but following my triumphant conversion to Gilbert & Sullivan last year, I'm pretty sure that Opera North will do a similarly sterling job in widening my musical tastes still further. Full review - including notes on which ice-cream I had at half time and which song I sang along with the most memorably to the delight of cast and audience alike - will follow the event, but you can have a sneaky peek here - it looks great, and Opera North are ALWAYS brilliant.

Staying on a musical theme, I am also looking forward to see Jim White play the Lowry's Quays Theatre on Sunday 10th June. This much-acclaimed American singer-songwriter released his debut album back in 1997, but I am something of a recent convert to his slightly off-beat, country-esque charms. Mojo say of his latest album, Where it Hits You, "once an Americana pioneer but now an elder statesman, White is still showing young pretenders a clean set of Cuban heels ★★★★", while I say: "I listened to this album this morning, the day after a friend of mine won a bottle of tequila at The Yacht Club Bar, and it soothed me, and was nice, and made me feel better, and everything...★★★". You see? I could easily be a music journalist *carefully gets bow and adds another string*, although you could always listen to some of his music here if you feel - quite unreasonably - you need to make your own judgement.

Anyway - that's the culture box ticked for a few weeks; now I'm off to have some crisps...

Long-Awaited BrewDog Bar Opens in Manchester: Local Girl Has to Go to Bed Early

Now, there are obviously a whole RAFT of reasons why Mr Liz counts his blessings on an at least thrice-daily basis that he has the amazing good fortune of being married to me. There's the constant availability of witty banter on virtually any topic, for example; as long as that topic encompasses some discussion of appropriate height of shoe heels for various occasions, or the behaviour of Derek in this week's episode of Smash, obviously. Or there's the helpful running commentary I am wont to give during the watching of any film, or the way I constantly faff about on social networking sites when he's driving me somewhere. It's all really terribly endearing, I'm sure.

But then, this week I have taken a gigantic, unprecedented leap up the ladder of good-wife-ness, a move that will carry me unsullied through any amount of bad behaviour over the next few weeks. It all began last week, with an out-of-the-blue email from independent beermakers BrewDog: would we like to attend the press launch of their new Manchester bar on Peter Street, and sample some of their tasty, beery wares? As a beer amateur, I didn't know: did we want to go, Mr Liz? The response prompted by this seemingly innocent request was little short of extraordinary: the sight of a grown man marching round the house, every so often raising his fists aloft in sheer triumph and shouting "BrewDog! BREWDOG!!", is not one that I will readily forget.

For it turns out that in the world of beer (and there IS such a world, as any number of eager, thirsty boys will attest to), BrewDog is a very big deal indeed. Born in 2007 when the very enterprising Martin and James decided they were bored with insipid, industrially brewed lagers and ales, the brand has gone from strength to strength - to the point where several different people told me at the launch last night that they had literally been waiting, open-mouthed, impatiently pacing, for the opening of the new bar. And indeed, the bar - a cavernous, be-girdered space - was packed to the iron rafters last night, thanks to an opening night special where any can of rubbish lager could be brought along and exchanged for a pint of BrewDog as part of the Crap Beer Amnesty, a move that really tells you all you need to know about the ethos behind this place: they really want to get Britain drinking good, flavoursome, honest beer that actually tastes of something.

So, on to the beer. As a confessed lightweight - and on a school night to boot - I kept to the lighter end of things, with the winningly titled Dead Pony Club romping home a clear favourite. This is a dangerously easy beer to drink - a seductively fruity pale ale coming in at just 3.8% (although presumably those "just 3.8%"s DO start to add up if you drink about nine of them). I also enjoyed the hoppy Punk IPA, and the strong-but-lush Hardcore IPA - actually ordered by Mr Liz, but snaffled by Mrs Liz, who drank it before realising it was circa 10% proof. Being patently NOT hardcore in ANY way, I retired gracefully at this point, leaving Mr Liz to try the BA77 lager ("chewy, in a good way"), Sink the Bismark (the strongest lager in the world, at a terrifying 41%) and the much-recommended Tactical Nuclear Penguin. These latter two are served in teensy measures, as befits the fact that the smallest of mouthfuls seems likely to floor any innocent passing grandma who (quite reasonably) mistakes either of these thick, dark liquids for a nice drop of sherry; Mr Liz preferred the Penguin, although that might just be because the name has the word "penguin" in.

Obviously my beer education has a long way to go, but I feel I have made a promising start here, in an atmosphere that really couldn't have been more welcoming - the staff are happy to offer enthusiastic and knowledgeable advice, and the long tables down the centre of the bar encourage conversation between strangers who wish to bond over a shared love of beer. BrewDog Manchester - joining the fleet of existing doggery brewery bars in Aberdeen, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Newcastle, Nottingham and Camden - is a proud and welcome addition to the city centre drinking scene, and one where I see MANY hangovers in the making...

- BrewDog Manchester is at 35 Peter Street, Manchester M2 5RA.

"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.