Were you at Dog’s Bar last night? Because I was. Imagine a stage curtained off from the noise and lights of Ackland Street, a spindly desk lamp, and Josephine Rowe draped over a leather armchair Dickens might have favoured, her pale feet dangling over the side. Or Chris Flynn, straight-backed, introducing guest readers with a Belfast lilt, needing a tweed suit to go with his cap. Delicately drawn characters from Steven Amsterdam and Luke May, conversations about boxing with Mischa Merz, and an impromptu travel story from Cate Kennedy that was so well-constructed, it was sleight of hand, the audience straining to spot the chicanery of wires and pulleys in the dark. And then wine after, and dinner, and conversation about books. ‘Twas good. You missed out.