Like swimming in beef Oxo and going after the wrong buoy 4

Having established our expectations of the pub to which we intended to retire for the evening and having then seen our hotel room, we downgraded those expectations once more. We seemed to have hit Darlington via some hotel time-warp circa 1983. At least that’s about the last time I think the rooms were decorated, the bathroom maintained and the net curtains hung. One of my first jobs was to repair the toilet. Now this was not quite what I expected to be doing within the first five minutes of dumping my bag but given Nic and I were sharing a room I fingered it was quite essential. If I’d had my toolkit handy I may well have done a few more jobs and then requested a discount but unfortunately it was one of the few things I hadn’t actually packed. It’s not the first time my plumbing expertise has come in handy. At the Country Living Christmas Fair at the Business Design centre in Islington last December being able to fix one of the toilets in the ladies loo got me bumped past a very long queue of women waiting to answer the call of nature. Being a practical gal definitely has its advantages. It was not quite seven o’clock but being keen to spend as little time as possible in our room we headed straight next door to the pub. I wasn’t entirely sure they’d let me in because I had by anyone’s reckoning had a bit of a brain meltdown while making my wardrobe choice for the journey and I looked like I’d just wandered up from the local diddicoy camp. Devoid of makeup, hair which would have had Medusa calling her stylist and some old fatigues that really had seen better days did not produce an entirely pleasing result. Catwalk glamour this was not. Unfortunately, other than a change of underwear and lots of swim suits, towels and other swimming accoutrements, I’d packed little else in the way of clothes. As I perused my reflection in the mirror, I was at least safe in the knowledge that I’d not be bumping into anyone I knew and I was quite prepared to give a false name and address if the style police caught up with me. It was a very short walk from the hotel to the pub, a mere 30 second stroll and it was a warm and pleasant evening, at least for the north of England, and lots of people were sitting outside seemingly happy to be soaking up the fumes and particulates from the stream of traffic passing about six feet away. I decided I preferred my food without the free carcinogenic seasoning and suggested we sit inside which was also largely full. Nic headed off to secure one of the few vacant tables and I headed to the bar where I stood, increasingly impatient, for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t work out whether the bar-staff had the attention span of a goldfish and so couldn’t remember the order in which people came to the bar or whether they didn’t serve members of the ‘traveling community’ and were strategically ignoring me hoping I would go away. I began to purse my lips and drum my fingers on the bar top and when one too many customers had been served before me I was no longer able to retain the spirit of warmth and goodwill that I try to embrace in such situations and so asserted myself. Somewhat to the surprise of the barmaid who looked at me as if I had materialised out of nowhere. The bloke who had pitched up at the bar ages after I had and was ordering two mega-portions of some cholesterol-soaked artery-furring triple chocolate mousse cake for him and his wife would have to wait. Anyway, I was doing him a favour in at least delaying his inevitable heart attack and as the barmaid rang through my order I began to run through the principles of CPR in my head just in case fate took a hand and he keeled over just as he finished his last mouthful. Nic had stuck with her plan and ordered a steak. I, whose common sense had obviously deserted me in the time I had stood at the bar opted at the last moment for a double-decker Tex Mex chicken burger and chips. Seduced by the description on the menu and ignoring the ridiculously cheap price of £4.69 all in, as soon as I placed the order my instincts told me I had made a terrible mistake. Back at the table and perusing the menu once again, I realised just how cheap the food was. Glancing round at the punters, most of whom would have benefited from having their teeth wired or a gastric band fitted it dawned on me that we were in junk-food hell and I had just jumped into the burning fires in an entirely voluntary capacity.

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[Ruthie]

I'm loving it! More please