If one were to listen only to the sentimental jazz tunes from the American songbook of the 1940s there’d be no question that the most austere life is one spent alone. Every ditty promotes a sometimes wistful though always loving companionship. And while I won’t contest the aspiration I nonetheless ascribe on some occasions at least no inconsiderable merit to the alternative – being on one’s own. An ancient friend of mine once remarked that he savoured dining alone because he had the best possible company. Unquestionably there was a measure of arrogance in the pleasantry – he wasn’t the most modest person. But I have sufficient confidence in the relic’s wisdom to allow for a kernel of truth in the quip. Indeed if I were to reflect but a moment on the occasions when I have dined alone the reminiscences are unequivocally fond though perhaps sometimes glossed with a patina of melancholy.