Regulars at the Dove St Inn are used to the occasional visit from musicians performing at The Regent down the road. Drinkers however checked their glasses last night as members of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra tipped up for a pint, instruments in hand.

Kelly Will, barmaid and artist in residence at The Dove, and a writer for IpswichSpy, tells the story.

It was just another Wednesday night working, when suddenly groups of people start piling through the door, and the mutter of, "there's something on at the Regent tonight" is heard. Each ordering a pint of local Real Ale, no one takes any notice except to frown at the masses wanting food, having not pre warned us.

"All the Philharmonic are wanting pies" exclaims Dom, my colleague. Wait, the Philharmonic, it can't be, not in Ipswich? Presenting the next customer with a smile, I notice that he's wearing a ruffled white shirt... "just out of interest, what group are you, performing at the Regent tonight?" I ask sheepishly. "Oh we are the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra" he casually states back, clearly expecting the barmaid to have no clue who is he talking about.

The room starts spinning, only me and the apparent musician in front of me in the bar. I ask him to repeat. Suddenly I am a child, and I've just discovered Santa Claus. The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra are in the Dove Street Inn, and I've been serving them drinks for half an hour. I nearly fall over with shock, only woken by the screech of "Kelly, there's food on".

Having seen the RPO play the Movie Gala at the Royal Albert Hall in June 2014, all emotion and memory of their musical beauty suddenly comes rushing back, overwhelming me. Remembering how the resonance of the French horn penetrated every corner of the Royal Albert Hall, particularly during scores by Composer John Williams, I well up; I cannot speak, let alone serve beer. The musician is still in front of me. I inquire where the French horn player is. Of course, he is drinking at the table in front of the bar. My head and heart now putty, I manage to request their autographs, and manically state that I must hug the French horn player. Each horn player at the table shocked by my reaction, hugs me, and passes my journal around, to be signed.