Sunday, 7 June 2009

Sunday carnage

Weekends are supposed to be relaxing aren't they? Mine was fraught with technological disasters. First of all, my washing machine refused to drain, and I accidentally opened the door, flooding my kitchen floor. Then my boiler refused to heat my water above 22 degrees. As if that wasn't enough, my new BT vision TV box wouldn't work. AAAAAH!

Blimey, I have had enough of this. I speed-dialled Becks, "fancy dinner out?" I said.

"Yeh, too right, I will be back from Manchester in half an hour," she replied (she has been visiting a chum). ACE. Oh, and Phil was invited too.

Lorraine (who rides horses and lives in the same village as me), had told me that there was a terribly good gourmet pub in a village called Cuddeston, so we agreed that there was where we were going to be headed. It is called 'The Bat and Ball' (apparently because of its cricketing history), and it all looked promising as we pulled up, until Phil nearly ran over two ashen faced smokers who were blocking the entrance to the car-park.

The first thing that we noticed as we walked in the door, was a mutt walking around the bar. I don't mean the 'bar area', I mean on top of the bar itself. It sauntered its way over from gin section, past rums and onto the draught beer area, where it sat down as though it didn't have a care in the world. We, on the other hand, were looking like complete tourists, laughing our heads off and taking photographs.

A polite waitress took us to our table, and we were seated next to the window facing the village. The only slightly irritating thing that they did, was ask; "have you booked?" whilst staring worriedly at a booking sheet, but not looking at the half empty restaurant. [That happens in a lot of restaurants and you are going to be really annoyed at me for drawing your attention to it.]

We duly ordered our food after consulting the interesting and wide-ranging menu. [note to self; Becks appears to be wearing a gilet constructed from dead squirrels - inform RSPCA - no don't. Subsequently been informed that is is 'fake fur']

Phil, wanting to explore other cultures and develop his palate, ordered a beef burger. [Note to self: why is he wearing workwear on a Sunday?].

Becks, ordered moules with a cream and garlic sauce, and joined me in sneering over Phil's burger. She is a classy girl, and I must admit, her dish looked super-tasty.

Meanwhile, I had ordered a steak (rare) which could similarly be sneered over, but my theory is that you always try the steaks first, and if they are good, you move onto the exotic stuff. Honest guv, it always works.

The excitement has not ended there, because they dropped me off at my house and I realised that my BT Vision service is now operational. As I understand it, this gives me about 200 different television channels to watch. I don't mean to appear ungrateful, but I scrolled through some of them and got to 'Dave TV' without finding anything appealing, so I will probably be turning Radio 4 back on.

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