It’s a new sensation, to be honest, to be writing about a date (not least knowing that they’re probably reading this, hello you). Or, at least, an intentional date rather than one where you’re not quite sure whether it is a date or not and later turns out to be not (good thing I wasn’t writing these last year). Kibou is the place. A Japanese restaurant in Clifton (“I think I know the one”, a friend says to me, “is it the one that does sushi?”. I remain speechless). We share the miso aubergine to start, as I resist now the urge to draw metaphor from our clumsy use of chopsticks to divide it up and eat it. I happily move onto a main for which I feel comfortable asking for cutlery (I’m sorry, I just never learnt and it’s too late now) - chicken katsu curry. It is good, and plentiful, and I enjoy it very much with my glass of red. The apple and cinnamon gyozas are a treat of a dessert that I cannot bring myself to finish. All in all, it would be hard to claim the night does not go well. How much Kibou helped me get away with that is another question.