One of the many pleasing things about Palm 2 is that its in-store music isn't ambient. It isn't sonic wallpaper, chosen for its tranquilising effect on Clapton's consumers they walk the aisles in search of chocolate fingers or tzatziki dip. I've had intense encounters with Aretha Franklin while shopping there, and sociological stimulation inspired by static-free exposure to Classic FM. The other day, though, I had my first disagreement with the aural element of the Palm 2 experience. It is, perhaps, a further tribute to the establishment's appeal that even this had transformed into a source of happiness by the time I left the premises.