A Night Out

I'm envious of my cousin and her family at Fittleworth in West Sussex. I phoned her yesterday to apprise her of my laser surgery and she told me that, due to the glorious hot weather they were having, she was taking the kids down to the river nearby. I moaned about our rotten climate in Northern Ireland presently, languishing at 14 or 15 degrees Celsius!

The inclement weather failed to deter me from venturing out on the trusty bicycle to the railway station last night. I dumped it in the bushes, well along the platform, crossed the footbridge and jumped on to the next train to Holywood, County Down. I'd timed it too finely because the carriage arrived within about three minutes! Indeed Peter, the school chum of thirty-five decades ago, missed the same train at Belfast "Central" station.

I ambled on to the Dirty Duck Ale House, wearing my all-weather apparel, and ordered a little restorative forthwith. They had Bombay Sapphire or Gordon's, so I opted for the former with tonic-water and parked myself at a seat downstairs.

Big Pete arrived about half an hour later. The bar downstairs was initially quiet, though they were doing a roaring trade in meals, waitresses popping up and down the stairs every few minutes with platefuls of nosh.

I had their very good scampi with chunky chips, dressed salad and plenty of tartare sauce.

The evening's indulgence came to fifty pounds, including the tip.