According to fitbit I got one hour and forty six minutes kip last night. I was awake from 2am. May well have been awake at that time but actually feel refreshed having had a good night’s sleep. Technology eh?
Bit of calm this morning. Friday. What do people do on a Friday? The proletariat ‘work from home’ if they can. I hear that nowadays they have their own designer treadmills in their small studies or next to the table in the dining room 🙂 I would. Mind you in the bad old days a Friday was when you would go out to the pub for lunch. An institution in many places. Rarely had a beer meself, at lunchtime.
I remember one Friday I was working late. Had to get a proposal across to the New York office. Long Island actually. This was pre email. Had to be faxed. All 150 pages. As I stood by the fax machine, must have been around 8pm (yes on a Friday – 150 pages took a long time to fax), an inbound fax appeared addressed to the Managing Director Bert Sadler. It was an offer from a competitor to buy the company! Not the whole of GEC. Just our bit of it. I picked up the fax and left it face down on his secretary’s desk.
I would have been in my thirties. Keen and career minded. Put the hours in at the coal face. Now I prefer the beach bar or that one by the harbour where you can drink coffee, watch the old men play boules and see the fish stall selling the modest catch landed fresh that morning. Making notes on observations.
It is observed that THG has gone to the gym. An early start for her today. An hour of Les Mills Body Pump. My god! I need to pack the car in readiness for a trip to the deep south. The land beyond the Big Smoke where the natives towk loik vis and support football teams called Maidstone, Chatham and Sevenoaks. Where they grow apples, pears, cherries, apricots, damsons, greengages, mirabelles, plums, and quinces (fanks google). Mirabelles???
They eat fresh oysters and Dover sole and nip across the Channel to France for dawn raids on the wine warehouses of Calais and Boulogne Sur Mer where beret clad proprietors tempt with an array of samples and sell plonk by the box.
Yesterday I registered the car online with the Dartford Crossing website so that we do not have to mess around with paying the toll on the spot. Amazed I thought of it.
Keep flying the flag, of truth.
…
Half an hour now, to wait. The bags are packed, we are ready to go. Riding a set of wheels called the Silver Bullet. The bullet needs fuel. The Tesco garage was rammed. Big queues. Will get it from Waitrose. More expensive but no queues. Time is money. Time is precious. Don’t queue for petrol. Don’t queue. Don’t. Dya think the king queues for petrol? There ya go then.
…
The king. A strange concept in the twenty first century. We cling on to these archaic, anachronistic institutions. Mind you you only have to look at other countries to think that maybe it’s the lesser of two evils. I thinkyouknowworrimtalkingabout.
We drove past the Lincoln Equitable Cooperative and Industrial Society building on Burton Road. Most people will just know it as the Coop. You have to cast your eye upwards and to the right, beyond the crappy modern retail facade, to the top of the fortress-like Victorian red brick building to see the gold lettering that adorns the second floor parapet.
I am a member of this venerable institution. Well, I have a coop card which I assume is the same thing. Don’t shop there particularly regularly although I did notice the other week that a litre of Tanqueray gin was only £22.50 compared with thirty quid in Waitrose so maybe I should. We sometimes nip in to the one opposite Yarborough Leisure Centre after a Sunday afternoon swim.
On the A1 we have just seen a sign for Woolsthorpe Manor. Isaac Newton’s old gaff. V famous amongst aficionados of gravity and those who benefit from it. ie all of us.
…
Made it to Bexley Eaf. Waze took us by some back road through a council estate. Werere though and established in our room on the ground floor with a balcony looking out over a dual carriageway.
Now expecting two phone calls fwiw. At an appropriate juncture I will hit the bar whilst THG gets ready for the evening ahead. Visiting Hannah’s inlaws who are v nice people. A good time will be had by all.
Night has descended on the Eaf. No idea if the actual heath still exists. Hadn’t quite realised that we are still very much part of the greater London metropolis. I am a stranger in these parts.
I have visions of a farmer in mediaeval Bexley driving his cattle across the heath to get them to market in London, at that time still a day’s walk away.
…
I am alone in the hotel bar except for some old geezer tucking into dinner. Plenty of vinegar and ketchup on his chips! Can’t quite see what he has ordered as he is sitting at a high table whereas I am at a low down one the other side of the room. Not particularly interested anyway but I know many of you will be. Crappo background music on and Coco Gauff on the muted telly. Riadh open or similar. Gauff is winning but a long way to go. Do fat ladies sing at the tennis. I know Cliff Richard does. Deuce.
He has his ipad open at the table. The old geezer, not Cliff. Two giggly young barmaids in Marriott branded gear flit about. Nowt going on and a few bags of crisps needed fetching from the store out the back.
I wonder what he has planned for the evening. 5.30pm is somewhat early for dindins. A night in front of the ipad in his room or maybe a big adventure out in Bexley Eaf. Not sure the Eaf is a big night out. We passed a couple of barbers that seemed quite full. Lads getting their grooming done ready for the night ahead. Gotta look right for the laydees. Good luck boys. Saturday night beneath the plastic palm trees, dancing to the rhythm of the Guns of Navarone. I discovered heaven in the Seven Sisters Road. It isn’t particularly politically correct nowadays to assume they will be chasing the opposite sex but hey… I am of an age.
“In my day” it was all about Saturday Night Fever and nights out in the Cave Disco at the end of the promenade in Douglas. They knocked it down years ago. It was in the basement of Summerland. I worked there the summer I was sixteen. Initially as a flunkey clearing tables then as a projectionist in the cinema. A seriously cushy number but very highly skilled obvs. I saw James Bond’s “The Spy Who Loved Me about 50 times. Used to get adhoc bar work as well for events outside the summer season.
The old boy probs thinks I am some businessman sat on his todd in a hotel far from home. Always tried to avoid that though sometimes not possible. Especially as when I used to travel to faraway places on business I indulged in the practice of arriving a couple of days early to get over the jet lag. I hate jetlag. Most folk would get to the conference on the day or maybe the night before.
Looking at the menu I reckon he is having fish and chips. It’s the only dish offering peas and I’m sure I saw greenery on his plate. Ketchup with fish and chips, yuk. I like bread and butter with my fish and chips, and tartare sauce. No vinegar or ketchup.
Aretha Franklin now playing. Big improvement. He has ordered sticky toffee pudding. Old Guys Rule.
The Marriott seemed to be the only sensible offering in Bexley Eaf. It’s fine. They let me park in one of the blue badge holders spots in front of the hotel entrance. Otherwise it was a serious hike around to the car park at the back and the back door was “permanently closed”. Not much use to man nor boy/dog/choose your own noun.
Bar is starting to get busier. Swatwewantinnit. Bit of atmo. Folk are gradually starting to order food. One woman wanted to know what the soup of the day is. Chicken. “Don’t want to order it yet.” All wiv an accent I only normally hear on the tv. She’s ordered olives.
Old Geezer has gone. Didn’t see him go. Probs never see him again, or know his story. All I can tell you is that the sticky toffee pudding was larvley. Apaz.