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Fanny is one of the first discoveries I made in my new neighbourhood – I can find a $5 happy hour martini like a heat-seeking missile. The menu doesn’t look half bad either, but my favourite part is the quiet little area out the back, perfect for enjoying the last rays of afternoon sun with a second hand copy of Our Man In Havana, listening to the cries of kids’ games over the fence and with strings of drying laundry criss-crossing the sky above.


Just have to get over the “but-that’s-a-naughty-word!” blush of its name. Reminds me of the impromptu dictionary of swear-words I composed with my pre-school partner in crime, the discovery of which got my mouth washed out with soap by Mum. (Craig and I had had a heated argument when I was adamant the C-word started with a K – one of the few times I’ve lost a debate about spelling). And then there were all those Enid Blyton books with characters called Dick and Fanny like she was being rude on purpose….

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