We went round the corner to a restaurant in Lamb's Conduit St (very apt) and sat in an echoing restaurant that smelt of damp to be assailed immediately by a hatchet faced once beautiful blonde now edging into sixty with a scowl and a lot of make-up.
'Drinks?' she asked.
'Tap water is fine,' we said as one.
'No wine?'
'Tap water will be okay, thanks.'
'No coke or apple juice. Orange juice?' (Both of which you just know are going to be from concentrate and a tetrapack.
'No thanks, just the water.'
'Have you made up your minds what you want?' she continued insistently.
We had barely got our bums into the seat and not even glanced at the menu. We asked for five minutes. She scowled off like it was a sport and she was bloody good at it.
A scant five minutes later she was back with her order pad. We told her we still hadn't had a chance to look at the menu. 'Another five minutes?' I asked.
'Well, if you could be ready then, only I would like to tell the kitchen so that they can get on with it, just in case we get busy.' She looked at her watch as though that was going to tell her something like it was five minutes before a coach party arrived from Great Ormond Street on a tour of London's Hospitals.
We in the meantime looked around the room that was so empty there was tumbleweed running through it.
What was the kitchen doing that they needed our order in the next nanosecond? Getting ready to go home, probably.
What was the kitchen doing that they needed our order in the next nanosecond? Getting ready to go home, probably.
'Oh if only I was still a restaurant critic,' I said thinking of the wonderful copy she had just given me as her back retreated stiffly off to warn the errant kitchen staff to be on their marks, ready, set, go
Obviously I waited till she was out of earshot - she looked like she could have eaten me and not even stopped to spit out the bones.
Obviously I waited till she was out of earshot - she looked like she could have eaten me and not even stopped to spit out the bones.
We had omelettes, which must have severely taxed them since it was the day's special and had no doubt meant a special trip round to Mr Shah's supermarket for another dozen eggs, then in between dry anecdotes about shepherds and Jamie Oliver standing 'in the queue outside t’ shop', Tim mentioned that they were just about to start haymaking on the farm.
'You should come up to Yorkshire this week for an overnighter and get the feel of the place,' he said.
Immediately I’m totally overcome with Cider with Rosie fantasies, despite the slight geographical discrepancy of location – Yorkshire Moors not Dorset Downs - thinking, oooooh lovely, haymaking, eeh by gum, grass-chewing one-man-and-his-dog, bucolic countryside, little lambs springing about like jack-in-the-boxes, cider/pints of ale, me in gingham in pigtails and then, before I could stop myself, I blurted out:
'No, I can't, because I have a date...'
I blushed. Imagine, the ridiculousness of a woman my age talking about having a date? I saw them look at me, not totally convinced that they had heard right.
'Oh it’s nothing,' I babbled, feverishly trying to backpedal. 'It’ll be over by the weekend – it’s just that I don’t go out much and… God knows when I’ll get asked again.'
It was like trying to get out of a ditch by revving your wheels and only digging yourself further into the mud.
They are still looking at me with interest, you know, like you would a two-headed cow.
'Really, honest, it’s just a meal out.'
'Where are you going?' Asked Mark.
By this point I’m beginning to wish I had been mute since birth.
'You’ll be married by next week,' said Tim.
'Well I’d have to get divorced first,' I replied. I mean, I might as well have issued a press release on my personal life under the heading ‘disaster’.
'Come up next week then, we’ve got lots of strapping farm lads for you if you’re single.'
Suffice to say I’m booked up on the train for next week. Cider with Rosie quickly banished in favour of a spot of Lady Chatterley.
I’m surprised at how much I’m looking forward to this whole cookery book venture. I’m going to go into the shops and spend an afternoon talking to the staff with Tim, and then spend a Saturday at their place in Borough Market. I’m even going to do the butchery course they run in Marylebone High Street. Me with a cleaver in my hand. Shiva of the Kitchen.
'You should come up to Yorkshire this week for an overnighter and get the feel of the place,' he said.
Immediately I’m totally overcome with Cider with Rosie fantasies, despite the slight geographical discrepancy of location – Yorkshire Moors not Dorset Downs - thinking, oooooh lovely, haymaking, eeh by gum, grass-chewing one-man-and-his-dog, bucolic countryside, little lambs springing about like jack-in-the-boxes, cider/pints of ale, me in gingham in pigtails and then, before I could stop myself, I blurted out:
'No, I can't, because I have a date...'
I blushed. Imagine, the ridiculousness of a woman my age talking about having a date? I saw them look at me, not totally convinced that they had heard right.
'Oh it’s nothing,' I babbled, feverishly trying to backpedal. 'It’ll be over by the weekend – it’s just that I don’t go out much and… God knows when I’ll get asked again.'
It was like trying to get out of a ditch by revving your wheels and only digging yourself further into the mud.
They are still looking at me with interest, you know, like you would a two-headed cow.
'Really, honest, it’s just a meal out.'
'Where are you going?' Asked Mark.
By this point I’m beginning to wish I had been mute since birth.
'You’ll be married by next week,' said Tim.
'Well I’d have to get divorced first,' I replied. I mean, I might as well have issued a press release on my personal life under the heading ‘disaster’.
'Come up next week then, we’ve got lots of strapping farm lads for you if you’re single.'
Suffice to say I’m booked up on the train for next week. Cider with Rosie quickly banished in favour of a spot of Lady Chatterley.
I’m surprised at how much I’m looking forward to this whole cookery book venture. I’m going to go into the shops and spend an afternoon talking to the staff with Tim, and then spend a Saturday at their place in Borough Market. I’m even going to do the butchery course they run in Marylebone High Street. Me with a cleaver in my hand. Shiva of the Kitchen.
Finally, the pink bed arrives today.
I hope it's not a disappointment. Ditto the date, but I fear it's built into the event, like an air bag into a fast car - it might save your life but it still whacks you in the chest and hurts.
No 1 Son has been asked to kindly dismantle the old bed to make room for it and on the way home I shall pick up the 1001 (cleans a big, big carpet for less than half-a-crown) to scrub up the upholstery in order to transform the bedroom into a bordello. All I’ll need to do is drape a pair of stockings over the bottom of the bed and I’m all set.
Of course I would first have to buy a pair of stockings, but go with it, go with it - it’s just a pathetic fantasy. I know that the only thing draped over the end of the bed will be my teenage daughter, possibly with a dripping jar of nail polish and a demand for a fiver.
Still.
I’ve always wanted a tart's boudoir (I think it's the same way men Middle Aged men with comb-overs buy Porches but with no carbon footprint) and I feel the time is running out before it stops being ironic and starts being pathetic (and you can drop the eyebrows and leave me to languish in the lovely land of denial). I know I am not quite there yet but I am getting very close to Barbara Cartland territory. Another few years and it'll be me in a silk pegnoir holding a pair of matching pugs which I will give Italian names (Fabio and Massimo) while I eat bon-bons and watch the QVC shopping channel. My prospective date has had his house painted by a Chilean revolutionary who, discovering that revolution didn’t pay as much as house-painting, diversified and covered his walls in murals.
Just what I need to complete the scene. Cherubs perhaps? A satyr in a glade, playing pan pipes?
You think I’m kidding…?
