L’Aquitaine has a Restaurant Week menu and I try a red dessert wine. We’re in South Side and we’ve just had a few drinks at the Beehive. Live jazz begins and we can’t get a table. I speak to the girl to my left, and to my right. At the meal, a fellow publisher makes a joke and everyone takes it too seriously. I go to the toilet and try to send a text message. It is humorous and little sad in equal measure, the lengths to which I go. I think of the Belgian who owes me a Facebook message reply and of the girl from near Manchester who sounded to all intents and purposes like a Blue Peter presenter. That was last Summer. This is Spring and it is Boston.