Post 195: It’s my Darlings Birthday and We Need Some Food
If you don’t ask you don’t get,
The curry we will never forget.
———
When all’s said and done, the day after the Lord Mayor’s Show is one of reflection and honesty.
As each of the two-legged humanoids rose on the morning after an hour was added to their revelries — the recounting of the night’s stories began in earnest.
The make-or-break of a party is always the food and drink, so I was particularly interested in how the meal went down, since that was my doing — the drinks were each to their own.
One by one, as the tired but not-so-sore heads arrived in the kitchen, it was the first question I asked.
And to a man, the answer was a solid 9/10, or 4.5 stars out of 5 in their estimation.
It turned out that while some of our guests were outside in the newly appointed (and very comfortable) smoking area, they’d met a chap who, after some questioning, was revealed to be the new chef from London. He’d only been there two weeks, and things were “going very well so far,” he said.
So that’s why the food was top class — and why my memory of this place being “just okay” was now so wrong.
In our group of sixteen, there wasn’t a single food issue or complaint. Everyone had glowing reports and fabulous memories of the feast — so I was very pleased.
———
The morning began with Mr Vicious calling for his food in typical fashion, and by the time all six of us were up and running, it was decided that we’d go out for brunch.
My money was on a pub, but after the votes were counted, I was in the minority — a town centre café was the chosen spot.
Two cars headed off to the big town’s multi-storey car park, which was a token £1.40 for the day (very generous, I thought). Everyone and their dog seemed to agree, and we ended up parking on the roof under a clear blue sky, because it was nearly full.
“I just hope the lift works on a Sunday,” I muttered like a grumpy old man.
It did, and the grumpy old man was less grumpy — though the popularity meant a long wait for the lift to reach us at the top.
Eventually, we made it down to ground level and met up with the kids, who’d already found the café but were despondent — no six-seat tables left.
My Darling, however, wasn’t going to be turned away. She strode inside with purpose while the rest of us lingered outside, wondering where else might go.
Then my phone rang — her name was on the scrolling banner — and just as I started to speak a line of eight people exited through the “in” door.
She said, “Come in, I’ve got a table now.”
And so the café was all of a sudden, ours.
To be fair, the food was fine and the ambience adequately old-fashioned, but I was in a funk of my own making. Cold and sore, my rib nagging again.
I can be unbearably selfish and stubborn when it comes down to it — I like my own way. And I had one goal in mind today: while I had the boys to hand, I wanted to tick off one of my “parental to-do list” jobs.
Yes, I’ve become that parent who saves tasks for able-bodied visitors. Today was no exception.
The pruning our youngest had started a few weeks ago needed finishing — the blackthorn and pyracantha along the fence with our lovely neighbour. Too tall for me to manage, but I could still orchestrate it.
———
Back to the café: I’d wolfed down my breakfast and was first to finish, which gave me time to think about what came next.
Plans were split, so to save arguments, we agreed on a fixed rendezvous point and went our separate ways. My Darling and I went to the travel agent. Perfect.
It was empty when we arrived, and we sat down for a chat with the same assistant who’d helped me yesterday on the phone. She’d already sent through quotes for a snowy, week-long aurora borealis getaway — horrendously expensive, but the kind of thing memories are made of.
This visit was to refine what activities I could do, health-wise. So, no snow skidoo adventures, but maybe a reindeer sled ride.
We’ll go back Wednesday to finalise the itinerary.
After that, we met the others and headed home.
Even though the day was grey and lifeless, our youngest still got out his trusty (coppicing) billhook and hacked away at the prickly hedge, chopping it down to manageable piles of debris I could deal with over the coming weeks.
Inside, the afternoon had a sleepy feel — except when we gathered for a rousing “Happy Birthday to you” for my Darling and a “Happy Anniversary to us.”
Three spontaneously bought cakes of many flavours were given with love, cut with care, and devoured in minutes.
Our youngest, after snooker, late-night card games, and garden duties, was knackered. So we packed him off with some goodies for the road and waved him away for a well-earned rest at home.
The rest of us stayed watching TV until, one by one, we headed for early nights too.
Jackie has two more sleeps.
The eldest and K have chores.
And me — I’ve got the CT scan after the longest of all: the bone scan.
Will I finally hear that the rib’s actually broken, or will the operators stay tight-lipped as usual and leave me in suspense?
In any case, nothing much will happen.
———
What a lovely weekend.
What a lovely family — and friends too.
What will the next scan show? Will it mean the end of treatment for a while? Will we get to Finland?
Why should I worry so much?
Thank you for staying and reading along with the tales of a selfish, recovering prostate cancer survivor.
Wishing you a week that’s kind to you.
