This is a family favourite. This is how to allay fears of the mother-in-law. An oasis of unselfconscious nostalgic frivolity a stones through from Vauxhall's grind. Here, endless variaions of chintzy china tea cups and saucers, hand-knitted tea cosys and glass bell domes constitute some small part of the burgeoning table sets. The Tea House succeeds to be ornate at every angle. This morning, however, it is a calm made conspicuous by its periodic shattering, the DFS ads lilting through from Clasic FM are abrasive at best, jarring against everything that is genteel and sedate in the calm of the cafe, cheapening the whole like claws down a Dutch master of elegant composure. Relatedly, as with Kahaila, the accretion of paper faff, clutter and the cheap printing of the 21st century gnaw the periphery of my oasis of calm: dates, types faces and a riot of urgency thoughtlessly obscure the handpainted signage and painstaking restored window-views, cataracting the eyes to the soul of an otherwise faultless jewel box. The portraits of dogs currently on display are an angelic host of furry joy. The Full English is confident, generous, and jolly as it could be.