How to eat an afternoon tea and the perils of bad strategy

Having employed the wrong strategy at an expensive afternoon cream tea, I hope to help any reader to avoid the recent pitfalls I fell into.

1     Eat only a small breakfast.  My mistake was ordering a bacon sandwich that was so dry it felt like chewing an asbestos sheet.  It needed several cups of tea to wash it down and my waistline was already beginning its inevitable expansion.

2    Avoid any establishment that puts a time limit on your experience.  Demolishing three tiers of food takes longer than one hour, if regurgitation is to be avoided.

3    Take full advantage of extra tea fill-ups.  You will need them to balance the top tier of sugar-ladened goodies.

4    Know your limits. Grazers beware - you will never complete the task.

5    Consider an exit strategy.  Sandwiches or scones are easier to shovel into a carry-out box than the top tier items which can run through your fingers leaving you looking like a chimp.  Sandwiches can easily be eaten the next day if refrigerated.

6    Get the establishment to build the box.  You only get one chance of victory over wafer thin cardboard tabs.  Swinging your prized contents nonchalantly over a fellow diner may be easily avoided.

Good Luck with yours!

NE

Fifteen Years

 Fifteen Years

At seventeen X was still a boy. An assailant with a knife had held a knife to his ribs, bound for an unknown destination on the Tube. As the door began to close at a busy station, he pushed his attacker away from him and sprang through the gap, spinning onto the platform but springing to his feet immediately and ran.

Days later he flew to California to join his father for an extended holiday.  Unhappy with academia and at a crossroads in his education, on the very last day he chose to stay, fifteen years ago.

Hearts had been wounded but the black clouds had silver linings. A career in media, still in its ascendancy, began as a cameraman, travelling he says, on a pittance, all over the world, yet unaware of the places he visited. Several promotions later his position now involves choosing the stories and preparing the news for one of the top four media giants in the States.

X wanted to meet up with his uncle.  Short notice meant it was going to be an expensive journey, but family is something else.  Normal terms of engagement didn’t apply.  My rail ticket was B65 yet the highest seat number was B64.  Was this a Harry Potter situation now moving from hidden platforms to hidden seats?  Did I have to tap B64 three times before B65 magically appeared? My closest fellow passengers eyed me warily.  I didn’t try to justify my appearing/reappearing act as I checked the next carriage, merely a dining car, or a folding seat tucked away, somewhere.

The train was delayed around Luton for about ten minutes.  Fifteen years and ten minutes now.  I was excited.  Delays wouldn’t affect a seasoned traveller such as X, I reasoned.  I sent him a message telepathically.  Not for us a cinematic rendezvous at a suitable statue but the ugly event of a mobile communication.  “Kirk to Enterprise…, Kirk to Enterprise” I imagined as I switched on my phone and voicemails flashed instead.  I’ve never answered one and probably never will.  I did however send a message of reassurance, “The Eagle has Landed.” We called each other back at the same time so I tried again and relayed my exact location.

Undercover police questioned X as he appeared “lost” they said. If he had done a forward roll or slipped into Michael Jackson’s moonwalk which he used to be good at, he may have avoided the incident.  Carrying a large backpack into a station wasn’t the best idea.  My father was a senior policeman and security and these times of ours are alas, the norm. They were merely doing their job well and I’d wished I’d been alongside, but only so I also knew the contents of the now damned bag.

It didn’t matter where we went, I had reasoned, but my first choice (I will save for a rainy day) was vetoed when X replied he had sunk his coffee already.  Missing a morning coffee is a huge crime and my craving sought a swift natural justice.

We fell into an impressive looking restaurant.  With the delay and the walk, we were into brunch territory and judging from the bill, confirmed cowboy country.  Were they also charging by the hour?  My hackles were raised as I was asked if we had a reservation – “Good God, no!”, I almost replied.  The sun suddenly showed its face and we decided to sit outside in October, my nephew electing to place me in direct sunlight, maybe to force the truth from my lips as we continued our eight hours catch up. Ordering the Full English Breakfast plus toast, the missed coffee and a beer seemed the most natural thing in the world. As did the next. We were uncertain if the restaurant had Greek origins or if the staff were merely slow to react to sudden strong winds that shattered plates, three, four and five times!

I offered to share the bill but was promptly dismissed but I saw the final sum as the imitation leather bill snapped shut. Bright neon “WTF”s radiated around me for at least fifteen minutes after we left the premises.

Another walk, another conversation, family members past and present were talked about, knowledge gaps were plugged, music interests were shared, bands discussed.  It was thirsty work and mochas were ordered at the next expedient coffee bar to alleviate the dry throats.

A Free Exhibition loomed on one side.  We were asked if we were human beings, forced to leave a phone number, not mine, as I still don’t know it. X’s international number was fine by me.  We were led to a holding area as a school party exited.  We entered and discovered it wasn’t an art installation nor a gallery, but an exhibition of cancer survivors’ triumphs and medical advances called Outwitting Cancer.   We moved through at a respectful pace and avoided eye contact as we exited.  I re-read the banner that should also have said “read the small print”.

It was time to play a trump card and we moved to the British Library to see Treasures of the British Library.  Civilisations across the centuries, Illuminated manuscripts, maps, and bibles from every world religion became the next weighty subject we tackled together.  A museum attendant followed us around.  Perhaps the size of the damned backpack was suspicious.  Under the weight of the Gutenberg Bible, or most of the exhibits, it would have been the slowest getaway in history.

Our Walk-Talk Tour 2021 continued, and X pointed out a drab, featureless inn that only visitors to our shores could select.  I returned his earlier veto and spotted my target – large, quiet, wood-panelling, good selection of ales, ticks x 4.  I ordered the drinks and, lo and behold, the damned backpack was opened to reveal two birthday cards from my Mum and sister and rather a large book about marathon running for his upcoming marathon. I couldn’t see anything else in the backpack’s black chasm that even a local drinker on the next table certainly feared might consume him, like an earthly black hole.  

The passage of time marched on and we had to march our way back to the train station with X requiring a return ticket.  We said our goodbyes quickly and I ascended the escalator but to my horror this wasn’t my departure area. I hastily descended and was studying the platform signs, possibly in a blind panic with four minutes to go, before my train would leave.  Our telepathy finally connected with precision as X reappeared at my side pointing my way ahead.  I unfurled my wings, the crowd parted, as the Eagle glided to the departure point with seconds to spare.

NE

Horror in Wales

Horror of Wales

Shock and revulsion drained the colour from Louise's face as she pointed and silently screamed, her eyes betraying the truth of her horror. The black spider, as big as a horse she spat, drummed its front legs on the folds of the white duvet. I passed over my mug of water in our well-drilled routine and she returned it empty , now our shield against the dragon-spider.  The vessel was too tiny, too ineffectual for the speed and size of our adversary. It evaded my lunge and it galloped across the expanse of the bed and dropped like a stone and slid to safety under the bed. Louise drew her mobile phone torch swiftly, in an instant and the shadow of the beast, retreated to the skirting board below our pillows. She passed the torch to me and I knelt at each corner of the bed, checking and hoping for a solution. Suddenly the creature charged across the dark floorboards with a lance towards Louise. She grabbed her bedside reading and yelled as she faced her fears and her foe and passed the result to me, possibly as a hint of her valour or triumph. I carried it to the bathroom, at arms length in case the beast was merely feigning death, and flushed him into the pot.

I returned the book and lied when she asked had I wiped it.  She gingerly advanced towards me, the weapon still in hand. I took a step back as the weapon was raised again. I flinched as I followed the arc of attack, only to see it slam into the wall and despatch a mosquito, the spiders' winged brethren. I surrendered an optical wipe to placate my fearless wife. Burning lamps were placed as lookout sentries in case of further disruption and we fell into uneasy slumbers and fitful dreams. We awoke and broke through the cobweb intended as our cocoon, to start our next day of adventure, steeled with a cuppa.

NE