Yesterday, my friend and I went to tea at the Film Institute at Temple Bar. Or at least, he helped himself to a pot while I settled for wine. Cobblestone pavements down the alleyways, sheltered by colourful shops and cafes of every description make Temple Bar, the celebratory carnival that it is. Throughout history, novelists, artists, poets and playwrights, met here for a camaraderie.
We turned suddenly to the right and were confronted by an attractive courtyard which as always masqueraded a stylish cafe; plus, there were tables in a slightly dimmer alcove beautifully shrouded with red lighting. It is guaranteed to make you glow which in turn decieves the mind so that the diner may fancy himself or herself, in the middle of a sunset. We queued for our drinks...others for chunky slices of cake, bagels and sandwiches.
The effect was atmospheric. The film school also boasts cinemas. It exhibited a list of screenings for the evening and people were hurrying for tickets at the box office. And of course, a quaint speacialist bookshop on a variety of film texts and material, stays tucked away beside the cafe. At the alcove, tall posters and playbills of Hollywood's golden era, towered over us.

I came away feeling quite heady. It was a lovely evening and office workers looking forward to the weekend, went shopping with merriment. I strolled over the bridge and river, eating dark chocolate - an indulgence I rarely treat myself too. But life couldn't have felt more carefree.

I also picked up an old novel, famed at this moment, for its nostalgic musty smell. September Roses by Andre Maurois tells of a scintillating Parisian love story written in 1958. The characters are named and listed beforehand in a theatrical manner and the plot switches from Paris to Peru and then back to France. It bears all the hallmarks of a dangerous intrigue. Think a young and beautiful Peruvian actress called Lolita, a distinguished novelist named Fontane and his possessive wife, Pauline.