Saturday, 18 February 2017

Ferry cross the Mersey...

I am alternating my blog writing with frequent visits to the 5* luxury bathroom, a room which overnight I have become well acquainted with.  This is what happens when you mix the following up..

Fruit for breakfast
Six hours schlepping around Liverpool
One Bakewell tart
Eight mini bottles of Prosecco

The husband decided that having been dragged around the sights, a beer was on the cards.  You'll note the use of the word 'a'.  At no point in that sentence was the word 'ten' mentioned.  Our first stop was Smokey Moe's.  This was jumpin' 3.00 in the afternoon... A rather rotund DJ in a beige cardigan was alternating his record collection with a bit of karaoke.  Two hours/three bottles in, we were having a ball.  And then something happened which you just could not make up. 

The husband and I were quite jolly by this time, and two gentlemen came and joined our table.

'That could be the worst decision you ever made', quipped I, implying that if they had come for a quiet drink, then our table wasn't the place to be.

Nothing.  No response.  No acknowledgement of my 'welcome'.

With a fixed smile, I turned to the husband and said quietly about 'that being a little bit awkward'.  It wasn't till they started signing and lip reading over their pints that it all made sense.  So that was the first couple of people we hacked off.

It was then into Ruby Blues next door where bottles six and seven were polished off.  More live music in this one, with a group of ladies sitting next to us who were almost as noisy as me and the husband.  An elderly gentleman had headed over, and was chatting to the girls.  'There's always one, isn't there', I said to the girl next to me.  Well it turned out that it was her dad who had popped in to say hello.  We went soon after that, as the frosty glares were souring my enjoyment of bottle seven.

We then sauntered/staggered round to Lanigan's Irish Bar on the recommendation of a couple of men in hi-viz.  Another bottle, and the husband decided that we should practise our swing dance moves.  Well, we gave it all we had (which might explain the large bruise on my collarbone this morning).  Unfortunately, the fiddler who was playing the Irish Rover at the time wasn't too impressed - perhaps we should have been doing a touch of Riverdance rather than the Lindy Hop. 

I think we got home around 11.00 - I'll be honest with you, I have had to rely on the husband to tell me what happened after bottle six as my recollection is a little sketchy.  Apparently, I was very good entertainment last night, and I am sure the husband will not let me forget my Mrs Malaprop comment about the Wispa bar in his central reservation.  I meant the centre console....

Before we went steadily downhill in the fleshpots of Liverpool, we had ferried, walked and bussed around this beautiful city, falling in love with its people.  Everyone we spoke to seemed to be a frustrated comic, and I particularly loved the camped up coffee seller on the ferry.  He kept eyeing the husband up and down in a hilarious Lily Savage manner, and then asked me if I'd ever tried 'a bit o' Scouse?'  Turns out it's stew.....

More of the same is planned today.  But without the mini bottles I feel....

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