In my student days Bobby Wellins was my idol. Whereas Art always conveyed an impression of tumbling good-humour, a sort of musical Victorian folly, Bobby’s playing was infinitely wise and mel­ancholy. Learning that he was booked to play at the Seven Dials, I waited impatiently for the day and was re­warded with one of the most perfect evenings of jazz I’d heard in years. When he played My Funny Valentine the whole room fell silent as the edgy, brooding phrases hung like smoke in the air. After so many false starts, let us hope that Bobby Wellins has finally returned to stay.