Now and again, I spend a few days in Chiswick; I can't claim residency status, but I feel I have accumulated enough time under my belt, to at least give me the sense of an emotional stake in the place. Nice area, comfortable, I like it. One day, I'll break camp and leave the inner city and retire here. It's rural compared to where I live.

Yet, even in this relative Eden, there's worm in the bud. Looming across the High Street now is the shadow of a figure in a starched white apron bearing an espresso. Brasseries have arrived. Popping up like mushrooms after the rain. For the small restaurant and café owners, who in my eyes, give Chiswick it's signature, make it the special place it is, this can only be like having a factory fishing ship permanently moored outside. All passing trade snapped up and swallowed right in front of them. I saw their futures begin to shape a few nights ago: the odd table occupied, more staff than customers, pretty bleak. Nearby, a honey pot brasserie buzzed and hummed. How long before parts of the High Street assume the appearance of an abandoned Western stage set: doors swinging loosely, tumbleweed cannoning against empty store fronts, leaves heaped up by the wind, the ghosts of diners past wandering through closed restaurants.

C'mon guys, leave the High Streets alone. We need to be able to buy light bulbs and potatoes just as much as we need to idly spend hours pushing wild sea bass around a plate. Don't think I don't enjoy dropping into these places, I do, but let's get sensible. Surely Chiswick needs a breather from any more juggernaut brasseries parking up on the High Street?"