Jammin'...
Miss R turned up yesterday with torrid tales of traffic jams and slower than a snail camper vans. That'll teach her for having that half hour lay in...
As we'd been waiting for Miss R to turn up before heading out anywhere, the husband and I hadn't eaten breakfast (this is purely down to the fact that we had no food in the shed as yet, choosing to eat out at every mealtime thus far). There was a loaf of brownish bread (what is this 50/50 bread all about?) and some butter, but no jam, and eventually we succumbed to some toast. I think the real reason neither of us wanted to eat was down to the fact that when Miss R did turn up, we would probably be eating out somewhere, and the toast would have counted as breakfast, meaning that croissants, bacon sandwiches or toasted teacakes were off the menu.
When she eventually arrived, she brought the rain with her. We waited, and we waited, and we waited, but gluttony got the best of us all, and Miss R and I coerced the husband into driving us into Beer for a mooch around the shops. That's what we told him, but let's face it, we were really after the first place which a) sold food, and b) allowed dogs in.
We ended up in a great little place called Osbornes, nursing pints of cider (Miss H, you'll be glad to read this I am sure) and eating crab sandwiches. While we were there, an old chap wandered in and sat down at the table next to us. There are no words to describe this old boy, but he looked like a Father Christmas who had fallen on hard times. His clothes hung off him like a scarecrow, and he was carrying a battered bag for life (not too sure whose life it was expected to last for, but if it was his, it was doing well). His hair was about shoulder length, white and frizzy and he also had a peculiar ripe smell. Mmm..nice, just what you want with your crustacean.
So he sat down, and the waitress came over and asked him if he wanted his usual, at which he replied in a terribly posh voice that he did. What was his usual going to be I wondered. Well, it was the following:
A hot chocolate
A pot of tea
Two jugs of hot water
A pot of marmite
A pot of jam
A very, very large port
He proceeded to pour hot water into the Marmite and jam pots and shake them vigorously, before starting on the hot chocolate. He kept glancing over to us, and as I was facing him, I dropped the occasional smile. I couldn't believe what happened next though.
Eyeing us suspiciously, he called the waitress over again, and asked to move table. Obviously, our clean clothes and lack of offensive whiff had offended him somewhat, and he scooped up his cups, glasses and other paraphernalia and headed to the other side of the restaurant.
Perhaps he's not a dog lover, or maybe the view of a couple of old birds tanked up on cider, giggling with an apologetic looking husband wasn't his cup of tea.
We'll never know...
As we'd been waiting for Miss R to turn up before heading out anywhere, the husband and I hadn't eaten breakfast (this is purely down to the fact that we had no food in the shed as yet, choosing to eat out at every mealtime thus far). There was a loaf of brownish bread (what is this 50/50 bread all about?) and some butter, but no jam, and eventually we succumbed to some toast. I think the real reason neither of us wanted to eat was down to the fact that when Miss R did turn up, we would probably be eating out somewhere, and the toast would have counted as breakfast, meaning that croissants, bacon sandwiches or toasted teacakes were off the menu.
When she eventually arrived, she brought the rain with her. We waited, and we waited, and we waited, but gluttony got the best of us all, and Miss R and I coerced the husband into driving us into Beer for a mooch around the shops. That's what we told him, but let's face it, we were really after the first place which a) sold food, and b) allowed dogs in.
We ended up in a great little place called Osbornes, nursing pints of cider (Miss H, you'll be glad to read this I am sure) and eating crab sandwiches. While we were there, an old chap wandered in and sat down at the table next to us. There are no words to describe this old boy, but he looked like a Father Christmas who had fallen on hard times. His clothes hung off him like a scarecrow, and he was carrying a battered bag for life (not too sure whose life it was expected to last for, but if it was his, it was doing well). His hair was about shoulder length, white and frizzy and he also had a peculiar ripe smell. Mmm..nice, just what you want with your crustacean.
So he sat down, and the waitress came over and asked him if he wanted his usual, at which he replied in a terribly posh voice that he did. What was his usual going to be I wondered. Well, it was the following:
A hot chocolate
A pot of tea
Two jugs of hot water
A pot of marmite
A pot of jam
A very, very large port
He proceeded to pour hot water into the Marmite and jam pots and shake them vigorously, before starting on the hot chocolate. He kept glancing over to us, and as I was facing him, I dropped the occasional smile. I couldn't believe what happened next though.
Eyeing us suspiciously, he called the waitress over again, and asked to move table. Obviously, our clean clothes and lack of offensive whiff had offended him somewhat, and he scooped up his cups, glasses and other paraphernalia and headed to the other side of the restaurant.
Perhaps he's not a dog lover, or maybe the view of a couple of old birds tanked up on cider, giggling with an apologetic looking husband wasn't his cup of tea.
We'll never know...
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