Irish Times writers review  Run for Your Wife at the Cork Opera House, Flook at the Cobblestone in Dublin, and Ioana Petcu-Colan (violin)/ RTÉCO/ Proinnsías Ó Duinn at the National Concert Hall in Dublin.

A set design by Alan Farquarhson that is not so much split-level as split-personality establishes both the plot and the technique used to drive Ray Cooney's Run for Your Wife at the Opera House. Directed by Jimmy Fay and performed with a confidence which seems effortless, the 20-year-old comedy survives the shift in social attitudes with such élan as to suggest that they haven't shifted at all. Benign homophobia is the central contrivance on which the farce depends and, to judge by the hilarity wit

A detached view suggests that this material, in which a London cab-driver attempts to disguise his bigamous lifestyle by pretending to be involved in a gay partnership, must surely be outdated by now. Yet the piece is cleverly constructed and, despite its apparent predictability, remains capable of springing a surprise or two right to the end.

The cast skate through the contortions of the plot without missing even the fraction of a nuance; the speed of innuendo and riposte is almost surreal. The accents are so studied as to verge - appropriately enough - on parody. Amelia Crowley's legs - and her voice, which can turn a word like "down" into one of five syllables - are stunning, but do not eclipse Claudia Carroll's underwear, although both actresses skim professionally past the competent, weight-bearing performances of Tony Tormey and Mark O'Regan.

Ends in Cork on Saturday, then plays in Westmeath

face it: there's something inherently ethereal about marriages made in heaven. Somehow terrestrial tribulations invariably seek to sunder them.

Flook's coupling of flutes most definitely reeks of celestial intervention. Sarah Allen and Brian Finnegan joust as boisterously as musketeers who have emerged from the one finishing school, Allen's alto flute ducking and diving between Finnegan's flights of fancy with acrobatic ease.

Flook's supply of home- brewed reels and jigs delicately balanced against Scottish and Irish tunes - and the odd Belgian one - would surely be the envy of any traditional gathering. Allen provided an inordinate number of originals, each one starkly different from its predecessor, whispering of a formidable appetite for lateral thinking and an insistence on mapping new territories rather than ambling down the same old tired paths of the tradition.

Allen's Granny in the Attic set heralded the arrival of her piano accordion, a ponderous instrument that exploded with inventive ideas under her tutelage. Scaffolded by John Joe Kelly's magnificent bodhrán and Ed Boyd's percussive guitar, this was a foursome that was hell-bent on shifting our understanding of the tradition to higher planes. The interplay between Allen and Finnegan on flute and accordion was so charged that it was as if they'd filled the tanks with jet fuel while warming up backstage.

Ger Wolfe, a singer/ songwriter with every nerve and blood vessel exposed to the universe, tentatively hosted a short interval set. The stripped- down simplicity of The Curra Road was an ideal counterpoint to Flook's higher mathematical complexities.

The band's return to the stage hinted at even better things to come. Again it was Allen's remarkable use of the flute as a percussive force, punctuating every phrase and gesture, that hushed the punters. And yet, Flook's ultimate success is in the subtle coupling of flute and alto flute, guitar and bodhrán, each player exercising a democratic right to co-exist without fear of being submerged by competing sounds.

And yet, and yet: somehow they let it all slip from their hands as the night wore on. Wordy introductions began to pale after a while, and Finnegan's disparaging reference to Gordon Duncan somehow jarred against the beauty of the music.

Musically satisfying and yet ultimately frustrating, it was as if Flook had scored an own goal just as they were coasting towards victory.

The Streets' main man, Mike Skinner was out of breath at the end of this short, sharp and exceedingly breezy début outing, God only knows what state he will be in at the end of a tour.

But, while it was always obvious that turning the barmy beauty of their Mercury Music Award-nominated Original Pirate Material album into a block-rocking live show was going to take time, there's no doubt that Skinner's intentions are honourable in this regard. Others in his position would probably milk the album of the year from the off, with a spot of miming and some heroic dancing on the spot, but Skinner is going the whole hog with a full band and no backing tapes, stylist or choreographer in sight.

What's clear is that The Streets cannot be seen simply as UK garage flavours of the month. If the pre-show selection of skanking reggae and ska wasn't enough of a signal, the old-fashioned ducking and diving of Same Old Thing or the way the lovely sweet peal of Let's Push Things Forward annexed a snatch of The Specials' Ghost Town showed the band's true pedigree as British street-culture jesters, albeit ones reared on everything from hip-hop to house.

While It's Too Late showed a softer side to Skinner's bravado (especially when he and vocal foil Kevin Trail sang it seated on the drum-riser), it was the rollicking, belligerent stomp of Give Me My Lighter Back and the surprisingly epic house sweep of Weak Become Heroes which made real connections.

Skinner, loping across the stage like an under-nourished Shaun Ryder, may be the most unlikely front man in pop, but it's his lyrics not his looks which will serve as his calling card. On this spirited showing, there's plenty of running to come on these Streets.

Good work, geezer.

Petcu-Colan looked pleased with the audience's reaction at the end of Beethoven's Violin Concerto at the National Concert Hall. And so she should. Her playing of the solo part was a highlight in a fine all-Beethoven concert, given by the RTÉ Concert Orchestra and conductor Proinnsías Ó Duinn.

The Coriolan Overture and Symphony No 4 had many of the qualities which epitomise the best things this orchestra and conductor have done together. In the symphony, speeds were inclined to be fast, without being hard-driven.

There were similar strengths in the steady-paced account of the overture - straightforward yet full of life, reliable yet non-formulaic. This music is familiar, but these performances made it sound fresh and spontaneous.

Slow speeds in the first two movements of the Violin Concerto - the first closer to moderato than allegro ma non troppo, the second more adagio than larghetto - are common practice, but misconceived.

Nevertheless, this performance was impressive in every respect. The RTÉCO and Ó Duinn were excellent in their flexibility and responsiveness. And Petcu-Colan was a model of musicianship and insight.

One of the most remarkable aspects of her playing was its beautiful tone and phrasing. Here was one of those soloists who is for the music first and last, for whom displays of ego are not only irrelevant but are probably distasteful. Even the first movement's cadenza - one of the few places where there was any sign of technical pressure - was a purely musical event.

Showing the same type of natural intelligence which characterises the playing of the Callino String Quartet, of which she is a member, this concerto was a pleasure from first note to last.