So many puns on the word crêpe, and so little time...

True, half a page in the Worthing Herald isn't quite on a par with Lord Voldemort (who we all know could achieve far more for mankind if he and Harry joined forces and pooled their magic to create their own rival to Cillit Bang, banishing Barry Scott to the Island of Lost Cleaning Miracles with the Shake n' Vac lady), but I'd still like to think I have an outlet for positive action in my own little way.

And today, I'd like to extend a public apology to anyone who has ever been seated near myself and my girlfriends in a restaurant. I am truly, sincerely, sorry.

Possibly you blanked out the experience in an act of Freudian repression, and I don't blame you.

Offered the choice of sitting next to us or the toilets/kitchen/car park, I would always advise you pick the latter as the more pleasant dining experience.

It's a skill we've been honing since our early years, practised at length through four years at Davison (where, if the trauma of a 3.40pm train journey from East Worthing on a weekday is anything to go by, they're still at it), and now unleashed with impressive force every time we all come home from uni and have a reunion.

It was quite bad enough during our years of innocence, but now you can factor in a few jugs of sangria and the result is something Trevor McDonald might report on.

We shriek. We squeal. We cackle. We are very, very loud.

We will almost certainly burst into song at some point.

We will conduct six simultaneous conversations at Vicky Pollard-esque velocity and there will be nonsensical "remember when?" anecdotes in such quantity as to drive even the most serene of diners to want to do something nasty with a kebab skewer.

Pity the fool who agrees to take a group photo of the table, for they have unwittingly bound themselves into a half-hour session establishing the scientific odds, if 46 photos of nine girls are taken on seven cameras from three different angles, of procuring one in which everybody looks at least conscious and nobody has multiple chins.

Good job, then, that we were the only early lunchers at Claude's Crperie on Friday.

It allowed us to reach maximum decibels with minimum guilt and exhaust all possibilities for puns on the word "crpe" to our juvenile hearts' content.

Good job for us, anyway, but a crime for the rest of the town.

Which is where I instigate my second bit of journalistic do-gooding for the week, and say this: go to Claude's Crperie, people of Worthing.

You won't regret it (in fact, my sources tell me this is actually what Edith Piaf was referring to).

The Bedford Row restaurant has been part of a larger discussion this week, working title: "Worthing isn't as bad as we say it is sometimes!", which was also inspired by the discovery of the new record shop off Warwick Street.

It boasts enough good vinyl to keep me happily browsing for an afternoon, like a crche for the musically pretentious (this would be less so if I had any money, obviously, but nonetheless I'm sure the owners appreciate they are helping keep an innocent girl off facebook.com for a few hours).

Likewise The Caf, above Oil and Vinegar on South Street, was a nice find, appealing to my condiment fetish by offering the most seductive selection of fancy oil and posh vinegar I've ever seen to heap on your salads.

Now, Worthing is not Brighton and never will be (we couldn't stomach all the hemp).

But frankly, it wouldn't hurt to try.

Particularly as the sudden influx of young professionals moving here to commute to the city might be after slightly more than a KFC and funfair on the seafront once a year.

So, I'm issuing a public "hurrah" to all the nice new places, and urging you all to use your consumer powers to keep them going, and encourage a fair few more.

Though avoid that table of squawking girls in the corner.

It's for your own good.