When I was a naive and tedious youth, a good friend who was a little older and a whole lot wiser used to speak of TWOT nights. Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday: the three weeknights during which Londoners had to go out at least once, to embrace the city, to explore or revisit or otherwise engage. Else you might as well move to Whitstable – which my friend did, many years later.
Mondays are sacred. Fair enough. The weekend was too big, the nights’ sleep too short. The Sunday papers bought with every good intention rest unbothered in the corner. And Fridays, well, it’s no more a weeknight than Sunday night is the weekend.
Which leaves us with TWOT. So easy to complete in our youth; so easy to forego in our middle age. Warm thanks, then, for a good local restaurant, which indulge us comfortably when we come home to find ourselves unenthused by the fridge and unimpassioned by the corner cupboard.