Small, cramped and always a little too warm, the Lamplight is the sort of café that regulars refuse to tell anyone about and somehow everyone knows anyway. Mismatched tables crowd the narrow room, each with its own little lamp, and the walls are papered with old posters, postcards and notes pinned up by customers who never came back for them. The smell of coffee and something sweet from the oven hangs over everything.

A scuffed counter runs along one wall, crowded with cake stands and a hissing coffee machine that seems to have a personality of its own. A battered piano sits in the back corner, rarely tuned but often played, and the door beside the window leads back out onto Central Square.