A couple of months back I launched a light haulage, trailer-towing and logistics business. I gave it the name ‘Dan The Van’, mostly on account of having recently purchased a van with which to operate said business. What with my name being Dan too, I figured I was on to a good thing. It could be argued that this latter aspect of the business’ brand development was simply a happy coincidence… although just who would argue this I have little idea.

Anyway… Much as in the same way I can afford neither a Bugatti Veyron nor a rocket-propelled unicorn that I can one day ride to the moon, the vehicle I purchased for Dan The Van was not new. Neither was it so old though, that I would be somewhat justified in anticipating a wheel or a door falling off at the most inconvenient of moments. That said, I’m not entirely sure whether there ever is a convenient moment for such a thing. Suffice it to say: the van was of a respectable age. I purchased it from a company I was familiar with rather than a man in a sheepskin coat with a cigar between his teeth and a penchant for unnecessary rhyming and avoiding tax. I was quite comfortable with my purchase until the power steering went kaput a couple of weeks ago. This, despite the onomatopoeia, made me very unhappy indeed, but I got over it and moved on. Earlier this week the remote for the central locking and alarm gave up as well. And I was really rather unhappy about that too.

For a moment I wondered whether Sod was also having a bad couple of weeks and had decided to take it out on me. And as I telephoned a number of organisations to get my key sorted I became more and more convinced that this was the case. That is until I discovered Martin of Access Keyway.

I called Martin yesterday evening and explained my situation to a very receptive ear. Not only did he clearly know what he was talking about, but at the conclusion of the call I was confident that I had done the right thing by asking him to come and help me out. While he offered to be with me within the hour I was compelled to decline this on account of wanting to go home and toast some crumpets. I suggested first thing this morning instead, and he arrived almost to the minute of the agreed eight o’clock, setting about his work with a level of professionalism and a courtesy that is sadly becoming increasingly uncommon.
Martin replaced and recoded my key with less fuss and aggravation than it takes to make a sandwich, and I am most grateful to him and his business for assisting me with mine.

Dear Reader, if you ever have the need of a locksmith or know of someone who does, may or will: call Martin of Access Keyway. I recommend him very nearly as much as I recommend toasting crumpets.

I have nothing but praise for this company and cannot recommend Spencer and Terry highly enough. The landscaping work carried out on my garden is without flaw. It is beautiful, was fairly-priced, and I will most definitely use Westward Landscape again.

A long time ago... in a galaxy far, far away... a two-headed lizard tripped over a pig and fell down four flights of stairs. He was hungry. It was most definitely time for lunch.
Dodging the rocket-powered goat he crossed the street, hopped over a gnat, and on wings of brick flew into a jar to be greeted by a small purple horse. 'Will you be dining with us today?' asked the horse, as one of the lizard's heads collapsed in on itself and an ostrich laid a teapot on the rug. 'Our special is a plutonium soup served in a duck and a main course of half a roast slug.'
'That sounds divine,' said the lizard's leftover head. 'I'll have the table on the ceiling by the moon.'

In one of the many parallel universes as yet undiscovered by scientists firing particles around a giant electromagnetic doughnut, the above may be a particularly plausible description of my dining experience at The Tramshed in Bath. Sadly, here on my version of Earth, today it is not. Likewise, describing my lunch as 'awesome' and 'exquisite' is also as reasonable as a psychic aardvark building me a shed from a bar of soap.

Our welcome to the not-very-busy Tramshed was perfectly acceptable and we were soon shown to a table. The menu was clean and looked reasonable, and items on it were priced in such a way that one did not have to offer to wash-up. Two of my friends and I selected roast chicken from the separate Sunday Lunch menu (what with it being lunchtime on a Sunday and all that), while my friend's girlfriend requested the fish. After ordering our booze we sat back to wait and discussed things that relate in no way whatsoever to this. We finished that particular conversation, had another and waited a little more, and after waiting for a few more minutes decided to wait a bit longer. That done, we ordered some more drinks and waited a bit longer still.

When our food arrived it was as if The Tramshed were playing some kind of joke. First, in terms of presentation it looked as though a small bin of kitchen waste had been dumped upon the plate. Our geriatric chicken was almost as dry as it would be had the chef chased it across a desert before beating it to a pulp and shoving it in a microwave for twenty minutes. Although we received side dishes with cauliflower and broccoli, the vegetables served on our plate included one... I repeat: ONE carrot, and one roast spud. We were told that Yorkshire puddings would come with the meal, but had to ask for them again because they didn't. No larger than a button, they arrived as we finished our lunch and had the taste of toasted pillows filled with cotton wool and cement. A glass of wine that my friend ordered with his meal did not arrive until he had finished either.

I would like to think that our experience was something of a blip in the overall performance of The Tramshed as a purveyor of dining experiences. However, noting the diner on the table adjacent to us spit-out his chicken and leave the majority of his meal on the plate, I am having something of a hard time accepting this.

While Mark, our waiter was embarrassed but extremely courteous and apologetic, later deducting some of the drinks from our bill, in the grand scheme of things, overall and at the end of the day an' that innit (know what I mean, yeah?), our lunch was as disappointing as the existence of Jedward. If I ever go again I will probably have the fish.

I had recently forgotten to purchase butter and so this morning my breakfast consisted of toast an artist could draw with, followed by tea that I spilt on my foot. By late morning I had written some nonsense, and it was close to midday when my telephone buzzed like a jar of angry crickets. An old friend was in town and she wanted to buy me lunch.

Outside the air was filled with sky-related water. I donned a raincoat as effective as a sieve, and left the cosy warmth of my flat to stroll down the hill to the restaurant. Unusually for me, I had remembered to bring my umbrella, but no sooner had I levered it open a passing truck hurtled through the torrent of water running along the side of the street and drenched me from head to foot. A gust of wind then caught my umbrella like a sail, pulling it skywards with its handle still in my clenched fist. A fraction of a second later and I punched myself in the face.
Full of rage and fury I launched the umbrella across the street and straight into a wheelie-bin. I was actually rather impressed with myself for that, but it did not entirely remove the potentially-explosive mood of the moment. I have to admit: I arrived at Côte Brasserie almost looking for a fight.

Naturally, I do not mean by this that I was looking to invite the waiter outside for a bout of fisticuffs. I was simply in a bit of a bad mood. I was looking forward to meeting my friend whom I had not seen in over a year, and knowing that she would calm me down in an instant anyway, I arrived at the restaurant and took a table without waiting to be offered such a thing. I had barely enough time to begin impatiently drumming my fingers on the table before a waiter appeared as if from nowhere, and greeted me with a warmth and courtesy that caught me a little by surprise. 'But this is a French restaurant?' I thought to myself. 'Why is he not snotty and rude?'

Despite my propensity for absurd generalisations and stereotyping I did not actually voice this particular thought, but requested some chilled water as I awaited the arrival of my friend. The waiter smiled and without so much as a 'huff' returned with a dihydrogen oxide-filled bottle more quickly than the time it would take to sauté a cat, my bad mood disintegrating altogether even more quickly than that.

Accompanying my dining companion was her fourteen-month-old daughter and our waiter noted this and swiftly brought forth a chair from which she could not escape. In turn I took note that the service was well-thought through and attentive without being intrusive, the decor civilised, erring on the elegant, and the napkins of crisp white cloth as considerate as the sparkling cleanliness of the glasses and the cutlery. It was but a moment before we were presented with menus to browse as my friend and I caught-up on each others' news.
We decided to opt-out of a starter and hoik straight in with the main course. I knew that my grammar was not up to much, but that wasn't particularly important.

For her daughter my friend ordered from the children's menu, and with a young nephew and a niece of my own I have to admit that I was anticipating the arrival of some kind of mush. I was rather impressed that the chicken served with dauphinoise potatoes and green beans as crunchy as feet on gravel, was nothing like that. The beans were perhaps underdone by half a minute, but full of the flavour one expects with green beans, rather than those I had in a hospital recently with the colour of dirty snow and the flavour of snot. For a moment I thought about ordering the same... but I looked once more at the menu and decided: not.

My friend opted for the salmon fishcakes served with a baby spinach salad, a wholegrain mustard sauce and something called dill, while I ordered the steak hach

Much as in the same way that one may expect a biography of Peter Andre to be consistently mind-numbing and dull, one can expect a visit to The Salamander to be the polar opposite: a consistently interesting and enjoyable experience, perhaps on a par with trying a hundred different types of cheesecake. I recently had the pleasure of visiting and had a thoroughly enjoyable time indeed. I was a little drunk, and failed rather spectacularly in my efforts to ingratiate myself with a girl I believe may have later described me as 'particularly annoying and crass'. Still, this did not have a significantly negative impact on my friend and I enjoying ourselves as we soaked-up the welcome, the atmosphere, the overall good-humour, and rather more booze-laced drinks than were otherwise good for a declaration of sobriety.

By way of a statement of the almost-obvious, Bath's Salamander is a boozer... and a rather good one at that. It is a clean and civilised establishment with a dollop of sophistication and something of a gloss of elegance, the combination of which successfully repels any ill-educated, tracksuit-wearing chavs intent on honking about football while simultaneously attempting to explode their own kidneys. It is one of Bath's more appealing bars in which to sit and engage in the consumption of booze-laced beverages, the selection of which, courtesy of Bath Ales, is particularly splendid and appreciated even by men without beards.

Sadly, I have yet to find anyone interested in buying me lunch or dinner at The Salamander. This is particularly disappointing because even a cursory glance of the menu is enough to make one drool like some kind of pest. That said, I did try the 'proper chips' not too long ago, and while I think the name 'proper' is somewhat misleading since they are priced at three quid, are not wrapped in newspaper and not swimming in four gallons of fat or served by a bearded twenty-stone grandmother in a hairnet, they are some of the best I have ever had the pleasure to gobble down too quickly, scalding my epiglottis as I did. Fear not though, for The Salamander is not your typical gastropub filled with estate agents and too-highly-paid council executives squawking into Blackberries and babbling about shoes. Sure, the chips err on the side of 'a little bit pricey an' that, innit', but they are good value. And judging by the menu on the screen of my laptop I happen to be drooling upon right now, the same should be said of the 'chorizo, fried egg, garlic and parsley frittes (sic)' priced at a paltry 'almost-eight quid'.

Overall, all things considered and to conclude... The Salamander is an awesome pub. Clearly not the place to meet girls while a little on the drunk side of sober... or Me, but great for consuming good booze, dining on what appears to be well-produced and drool-satisfying comestibles, avoiding oiks, and having a thoroughly pleasurable time indeed. The staff are friendly, welcoming, and care about what they do, and the decor is very much on the right side of pleasant. I recommend The Salamander much as in the same way I quite like cheesecake.

Unlike a faceless corporation frequented by the general hoypoloy all honking for muffins and skinny-double-decaff mochafrappachinos, Same Same is a unique, charming and interesting, independently-run, multi-award-winning little bolt-hole with an atmosphere that makes one feel almost as though one is visiting the home of a distant relative one actually likes. It is warm and friendly and blends the rustic with the contemporary much as in the same way the chef has blended some parsnips with a few beans to make today's rather tasty soup.

A cafe throughout the day serving breakfasts, lunches and afternoon tea, Friday and Saturday evenings see the place transformed into an intimate and, dare I say it: romantic, almost Parisian-like tapas bar and restaurant evidently-absent of booze-fuelled, curry-guzzling chavs.

As a particular aficionado of caffeine-related beverages I have long been confident that Same Same serves some of the best cups of coffee around. But it is not only this making it the popular haunt for students, professionals and visitors to the city alike, for the menu is excellent and the task of providing something just that little bit special is accomplished so very well indeed.

Each of the menus are well-balanced and tell it like it is: with dishes tending to escape being referred to as drizzled with anything, and rarely accompanied by a coulis or a jus. I believe that the majority of the food is locally-sourced, organic (particularly if it serves a purpose other than lining the pockets of champagne socialists), and often fair-trade, and green things are also available for anyone unappreciative of the fact that animals taste nice.

Personally, on a previous occasion I found the 'macaroni and cheese topped with roasted mushrooms and homemade hazelnut pesto' as pleasant as a hug, while more recently the 'Wiltshire cured ham, toasted Somerset brie and oven-roasted tomato' sandwich left me wondering whether Karma would later that afternoon drop a piano on my head. It didn't.

The tapas menu features such culinary delights as 'honey-roast root vegetables' and 'baked Moroccan meatballs' in a tomato sauce that isn't ketchup, and a 'chorizo glazed in cider with green beans and almonds' dish is as much of a delight as something else served with the cheese of a goat. Each of these, together with the items on the main, breakfast and sandwich menus, add-up to a feeding experience almost as enjoyable as receiving a rebate on one's tax.

Service-wise, I have always found it exceptional, but it is not the new El Bulli and therefore minor, one-off imperfections are inevitable... one example being the occasion, a year or so back, when a staff member caught a sneezing fit and threw my coffee across the floor. But that was funny and, like I said, these things are minor in light of the overall experience of spending time at Same Same; whether that time is spent dining with friends, having a meeting about world domination and the like, reading a book such as No stranger to the P45, or simply pondering the number forty-two.

Fiscally-speaking, Same Same is not the cheapest of establishments although neither is it expensive. It provides all-round value-for money whether you have a hangover of a morn and need a wonderfully-therapeutic cooked breakfast, or you wish to impress a romantic interest with your knowledge of places that don't leave you feeling a little like you've just been fed from a trough.

Same Same can be found at the lower end of Bath's Bartlett Street, a small, cobbled and rather busy thoroughfare connecting George and Milsom Streets with their good friend, Alfred. Here, as well as enjoying coffee or tea you can eat breakfast and cake, sip booze and dine very finely indeed.