IN CASE you are wondering what you may have accidentally stumbled upon new reader or if you are a regular in the Marlbank tavern sitting on a virtual stool and wanting a long promised mission statement, well we have been beavering away down here close to the invisible border working on a few jazz charts for the chalkboard while listing as well as listening, fortuitous typo there, to Public Image Limited on the jukebox. Hooray.

THINK of Marlbank as a pal helping you out now and again. You look in the paper. Nada. You turn on the telly, nope. You surf the net, a bit of boasting and a few reheated pies left over from the night before. Hardly ideal.

WHAT we do here heated up fresh from the freezer by a skeleton crew of top jazz chefs on the waiting list for cordon bleu training meantime working tirelessly for the love of it rustled up from meagre resources is to give you wings, often of the chicken variety admittedly, to fly off to find the great jazz that you know is out there, hear a word or two from the top players speaking candidly while taking time to relax and consider the state of the planet over a game of shove ha’penny, and even offer a few tips about the festivals you want to rock up to before too much precious time slips away and your embouchure goes to pot.

THERE is an invisible border and it is staying that way meaning all styles are welcome in these bucolic parts. Obviously however we reserve the right to retain a healthy sense of humour when the new Euge Groove album is on the turntable.

LASTLY, dip in, the water is warm, and in the words of that great butter ambassador and memoirist John Lydon speaking to The Guardian oh centuries ago: “don't let anybody step over that line — it's an invisible line, but it's respect for somebody's space."