Most of my recent evenings have centred around gentle excursions to Holland Park, and long, leisurely hours there, reading and catching drifts coming over from the local Opera festival.

Totally bourgeois, completely serene; the raucous, emerald coloured parakeets and strolling peacocks, being the only real distractions.

However, an artist friend of mine has invited me out on the town with them this Friday, and I think this could well be an After Hours experience.

Do you know the movie? A mid-eighties piece about a humdrum, drudge office worker who takes a metaphorical turn left when he should have stuck to his usual right, and ends up forsaking his normal TV dinner lifestyle for one hell of a strange night.

The place, my artist friend has in their sights, and this is taking the best bits, is a "...vaguely burlesque...(and)....extremely unclean (club)...where the club owner...sings, and is always dressed like a Chicago mafia boss...but he is not a phoney; and probably his criminal records are not that clean, too..."

The main act sings in a Tom Waits style and interleaved amongst it all is a girl or two, who decides she's socially inhibited wearing clothes and therefore better off without them on.

As long as the latter entertainer does n't bounce on my knee, or shake whatever it is she can shake in my face, or brushes my head with a feather, then I'm good to go.

Then Sunday, back to the healing balm of the park.