Making progress

My landlady alerts me to the fact that there is a ‘better’ pub in the vicinity. To be fair, it would be difficult to be worse than the Seven Stars in Royston Vaisey/Stithians. I’ve now made two outings there and have not exactly been met with open arms despite the fact that I recently left them a copy of the West Briton. The West Briton is the local rag and seems overly populated with paedophiles. The landlord of the Seven Stars obviously has a distinct aversion to single females of the wine imbibing genre. However, I have a cunning plan to get my own back on his lack of hospitality: as we speak, a team of intellectuals comparable to the Milibands is forming to destroy the status quo in the Sunday evening quiz night.

I am not alone. For a start, I’ve discovered Lindsay and Ian, recently eloped and now living in the piggery. Ian has a PhD from Bristol. Currently unemployed, he has lots of time to read up on news, celebs and watch sport. Lindsay is an environmental biologist….will there be any suitable questions? Then there’s Josh. Josh is a musician living at Molly’s. Due to the shortage of student accommodation, Josh has ended up here on the farm with no transport. Every day, he walks two miles just to get to the bus stop. That’s dedication. I met him tonight clambering over the stile and informed him he was part of a team. He looked suitably unimpressed.

Anyway, off to the Golden Lion. I’m more than adept now at these country tracks. Mind you, I’m getting through a fair amount of fuel owing to the fact that I seldom reach anything above second gear. The Golden Lion is just past the lake. Pardon? I didn’t even know there was a lake. Bloody great thing it is. I noticed it as I was crossing it on the return journey. Well, you know what I’m like with bridges so good job it was dark. Didn’t even know I’d been over it on the way there owing to the relentless rain beating on the screen. It’s a very nice pub with a stunning menu: game stew with herb dumplings, Mrs Finn’s home-made cheese on a potato & onion rosti, chicken stuffed with old smokey (whatever that is), linguine with Cornish crab and not a pasty in sight. Plus, the walls are covered with awards for the food. Lovely.

£4.85 for a glass of wine and they still looked at me with some suspicion though.

Gone to the dogs

I’m trying to be helpful by taking the dogs out. Actually, altruism isn’t really to the fore: sharing a lead with a greyhound is the only means of having a cigarette in these parts. The dog has sprained its ankle and is not keen on walking far. Fortuitously though, it pees every five seconds so there’s time to light up. That is until it forgets it is a large skinny beast with long legs and surprises itself by falling off the bank whilst engaging in yet another crouch. Up goes the pitiful paw and a whine is emitted that in dog-speak translates as put that thing out and take me home.

The next evening I plump for the grumpy black dog thinking there’s more chance of a decent walk and more nicotine. In the former, I am not wrong. We walk up hill and down dale and Patch, who is too cross to go on a lead, has a joyous time fiercely chasing a passing jogger. The athlete appears to know Patch and shouts personalised abuse. I pretend I have nothing to do with this dog and wonder when I might regain enough breath for the fag that was the initial reason for this jaunt. After some weeks, we reach the end of the track and hit a road. What road? I haven’t yet succeeded in getting out of my lodgings or back in again without going wrong. Keep bearing right they say. Patch and I walk miles. And miles. We see tractors and trailers and a steam roller and once a standing stone. After an hour, we meet Lynn and Mary from New Milton walking along the lane with a lot more confidence than we possess. They take us home. I still haven’t had a smoke.

Trailing round Falmouth I wonder how it might be possible to distinguish between the multitude of pasty emporia. I haven’t yet had a Cornish pasty and feel that I should make the effort. I don’t want to eat it walking along the road or sitting on a bench as that would be rather common. I don’t really want to eat one at all. I decide to go to the pub on the quay where we all spent the only rain-free evening last year and where they sell allegedly homemade pasties. I pick a sunny table over-looking the water and order a coke and a tortoise pie. The gods are watching me: the pub has sold out of pasties. The landlady says she is not averse to me purchasing one from a shop and eating it at the pub table. I am very grateful for her kindness but decline the offer and upgrade to a fresh crab salad.

The bridge looms

Back on that well-worn road to Swansea once more, we are momentarily distracted at Beckington by an alarm. I won’t bore you dear reader with the details of packing the Fiesta although, should you be looking for a car that can accommodate two adults, three large crates of books, a lap-top computer, a duvet, two pillows, a bin bag full of assorted bed-linen and towels, a sheepskin under-blanket, a thirty-two inch television, a bag of shoes, a suitcase, an overnight bag, my overnight bag, one of those unwieldy items that holds a suit and two packs of bacon, look no further. No problem. Unless the alarm is emanating from said luggage. Can you hear that asks the man-child? I can’t hear anything…I’m too busy trying to have a serious conversation about his future. Why do you always try to have serious conversations the minute we go to Swansea he asks earlier? When else are we sat in close proximity for three and a half hours I say to the captive audience?

The bells, the bells. I look at my watch. Did you set your alarm clock for 10.0 clock I ask as we traverse a road conspicuous by its lack of a convenient lay-by. I pull alongside a handy bus-stop in the middle of nowhere. You can’t stop here he says; a bus might come. I point out that even if we happen to have reached this god-forsaken, isolated spot at the very time, on the very day that the annual bus appears, there is no-one waiting in the monsoon that is currently taking place. The alarm continues. It seems fortuitously close at hand so the rain-fearing, double-jointed man-child climbs over the seat in search of the dreaded clock. It’s too tricky for me so I open the door, which narrowly misses being de-hinged by a passing truck, and pull the driver’s seat forward. What did you do that for asks the man-child who was supporting himself on said seat and is now in a messy heap. We push the outsized TV back, locate the alarm clock and switch it off. Job done and we set off. Except now the giant TV is moving noisily around. We make another stop, readjust our packing and continue our discussion.

Here’s a funny thing: conversation flows naturally until the bridge is in sight. I have taken copious quantities of Rescue Remedy in preparation and now want him to start talking to me so I can get across the dreaded thing preoccupied with an interesting debate. Talk has dried up. On the way back I am alone in a gale. I sit on the hard shoulder for a while in the beating rain whilst lorries rush by with a venom that threatens to plummet me into the depths of Chepstow. I put on the afternoon play, breathe deeply and sail back into England. Back in beloved Dorset I find the car has been successfully emptied of everything except the bacon. Bodmin Moor looms on Sunday.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye

A week of bon voyages draws to a close at the St Peter’s Finger quiz evening where it’s also the last night for MC Wilco who, along with the man child, (and yours truly) returns to academia later this week. A triple celebration as it’s also the birthday of Wareham quiz-master extraordinaire, Taffy Adler. Thankfully, no Tom Jones questions but rather too many with a football theme for my liking. We plummet gracefully on the so-called connections round by which time we’ve lost the will to live anyway.

Last week I participated in one of the great train journeys of the world: the infamous Poole to Brighton run where the most exciting thing is trying to catch the connection at Southampton on another platform in three minutes. Most of the three hour trip is spent catching up on the pre-reading for my course. I reach the renaissance at Fareham and struggle onto East Sussex in the company of Milton and Ben Johnson. Good job I’m trapped on a train, otherwise I might succumb to a burning desire to wash the kitchen floor. They’re a laugh a minute that pair.

Bev is waiting for me at Brighton with Vicky who is sporting yet another broken ankle. It strikes me that these two are about as far removed from Marge Simpson’s sisters as it’s possible to be. We are in the tea-rooms, of which Bev is a world-class expert. Vicky mentions that this particular establishment has gone to the dogs….she’s spotted someone chewing gum. I am glad I threw mine away before we started out. We have cakes; a concession to the fact that Bev doesn’t eat. I realise this when we go a whole day with only the promise of a fish-cake somewhere in the distant future. I feel faint. Bev says she’d like to be a fly on the wall when I recount this. I’d like to see a fly on the wall so I can eat it.

A wedding party and yet another farewell to ex-work colleagues. Eight hours after the actual ceremony, which I missed due to entering the post-Elizabethan period at Burley, Carole still looks like a beautiful porcelain doll. We arrive at the country house hotel in a pale blue stretch-limo, already soaked in wine and free bubbly. The private guests are temporarily worn out from the wedding breakfast but we are looking for the action. An unexpected star turn from Paula’s belly dancing troupe goes down a storm. Then we take to the dance floor. It’s a suitably memorable finish to ten years with these friends as we stagger out into the Dorset air and fall into the world’s biggest taxi.

Last night sees a quiet meal with Sue and me on the point of exhaustion. We share a glass of wine and the talk is of Christmas. It’s only a blink away and I still have two hundred years of reading left.

The study support tutor has left the building

There was a gathering of friends in Chaplaincy today to mark the passing of time. Teas and coffees were available accompanied by the previously mentioned Chocolate Biscuit Cake, the infamous Sue Brown Banana Cake and the pretentious new kid on the block…Tony’s Dorset Apple Cake. In honour of the old kid finally making the great escape there was a heart-warming speech by an ex and sorely missed line manager who was delighted to offer a reference for future employment; and initially thrilled to learn that a request for said reference was already winging its electronic way towards him. The discovery that the position in question was as a life model initially threw him but I know he’ll think of something appropriate to write. Cards with thoughtfully scribed messages were presented along with a generous variety of gifts. Then there were the partings. When will we see you again? Ummm, 7.30 at Carole’s hen night?

So off to a Chinese restaurant for a charming soiree where nice things like redundancy and marriage were celebrated. New beginnings and life changes all round. And more to come on Saturday evening when the merry band will take an evening cruise in a limo before arriving at a luxury hotel to partake of a little toast or three to the newly-weds. All of us are in our fifties and none of us have any intention of behaving as if we are. I’m glad to say I won’t miss that place one iota and not so much as a backward glance was passed as I drove out of the car-park for the last time. Neither will I miss my friends because I’ll still have them. The future’s bright. Carpe Diem and all that jazz.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUugQoxS8_o&feature=related

0% Fat

A long and mixed weekend of family, hangovers and treats is on its way out of the door. It finishes with the construction of a chocolate biscuit cake. Which is to say, not chocolate biscuits but a chocolate cake with biscuits. I am not known for my cakes so, being charged with making one for my leaving do, I opt for the oven-free variety. The chocolate biscuit cake rekindles my childhood memories. It contains Golden Syrup, still from a green tin, that I had all but forgotten dripping off hot buttered toast. And my chocolate biscuit cake also contains marshmallows which, on reading the packet, I am astounded to read are fat free. How can that be I wonder as I pop a spare one into my gaping mouth?

Daughter number two has the nerve to turn thirty this weekend. In preparation, aged parents rearrange golf, bowls, landscape gardening, go-karting, house renovations and forego haute cuisine in order to drive south for the celebrations which commence with an excellent fish supper in town. Friday is the birthday and Raclette has been requested but before that, we must take the train to Weymouth for ‘a trip out’. The train ride is lovely. Weymouth is not. Trip Advisor claim that Weymouth is fourth on the list of emerging popular destinations. Has anyone from Trip Advisor been to Weymouth? And where are the other three on their list? Milford Haven? Actually, it’s quite nice on the quay but it flashes past in the blink of an eye to be noted only as a possibility for a future visit by those who like craft shops. We yomp along the sea-front back to the station and manage to accomplish the ‘day out’ in precisely two hours. I recall my father saying they’d done the Camargue by 11.30am.

We are nine for the Raclette; three more than anticipated. Gradually, the old and young fall by the wayside and the hard core drinkers, who had no intention of drinking so much, remain to mix their intake and watch Winnebago Man on YouTube. The next day, having double-booked, I miss the actual party and zoom off reluctantly with daughter number one to Southampton. We have tickets for the 25th anniversary production of Les Miserables prior to its appearance in the West End on Tuesday. I do not want to go. I have a headache and I have discovered that the show is three hours long. We emerge from the theatre at 10.30. It has been simply amazing. I can’t remember being so transfixed and I have run out of adjectives. It was quite wonderful.

The man-child falls in the door at 6.45 this morning. He’s not looking well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDQQfBrSUs0

No hope

In the dining room of the Green Lawns Hotel, I find myself trapped in a 1950's novel. Fuzzy, muffled musak, possibly of a foreign origin, plays irritatingly in the background of this vast and empty expanse of white linen. Two elderly waitresses dressed in regulation black and white hover impatiently. It's the first week of September so no children but where are the Saga folk? Two couples who dare not speak in loud voices are present plus a solitary German who is trying to explain the origin of his name to the disinterested lady who only wants to know whether he requires coffee. I have a sea view from my table for four. Clearly, the other three are not turning up. I must move my chair some distance from the table in order to enjoy the panorama which means I cannot see the lights of Falmouth Bay whilst eating. There is no sea view from my bedroom despite the fact that I had to climb a staircase akin to the north face of the Eiger. The food is so bad that I dare not venture back into the dining room for the breakfast I have paid for the following morning. I write some notes on a spare piece of paper in th hope that they will think I am an hotel inspector.