Oslo

Honey, you'd love it here.
There's such attention and tidiness; clean lines, good materials, space, light. The people are stylish, but not self-consciously so like in some Mediterranean countries. All the colours are understated; the men look like men wearing black jackets, the invariably pretty women with their hair noir or strawberry ski blond. And though there is marketing, it is not rife and overbearing as in Southern England. One still has the choice whether to look at advertising.

The atmosphere in the streets is undeniably European, with the cafes and the wide streets/ block architecture; yet there's more than a touch of the New World - maybe its the combination of the occasional tall building, the climate that feels a month- and- a- half advanced toward winter, and the strains of, unbelievably, Rod Stewart crooning standards from a nearby record shop that brings to mind that idea of New York in December.

Beyond these comparisons though, the place has an identity all of its own. The baker delivers his bread in stacking chrome baskets. The few pigeons around are relatively polite. The train station provides neat little foldout timetables, the maps featuring schematic- style fjords. There's a large neon art-deco clock, proclaiming 'Freia'.

The air is cool and transparent; the sky is so blue.