How it happened, I really do not know, but somehow I managed to double book myself for lunch. I am reminded of that famous episode of the Vicar of Dibley where the Reverend finds herself eating three full Christmas dinners,
one after the other, because she cannot bring herself to disappoint one or more of her generous parishioners. Her Diary Disaster was even worse than mine.
Today I was just about to serve up the coq au vin
and assorted vegetables for our friends Bob and Val when the phone rang. It was Sweet Sue, phoning from a restaurant called Tides (which Sue always calls Waves - well, that's near enough, don't you think?) asking where I was. She and our mutual friend Eleanor
were sitting there waiting for me to turn up and wondering where I was. To say that I was overcome with guilt is putting it mildly. Not to mention the fact that, as One Who Is Always Thinking of Her Stomach, I just hate the thought of missing out on a lunch.
Fortunately, as Sue reminded me, we are due to meet again in a fortnight's time - I shall have to eat twice as much and talk at the double, to make up for today.
Mr B and I did, however, enjoy our lunch with
Bob and Val. For starters (and we are not talking lunch, here) Val was able to give us a blow by blow account of the Bowls Cub get-together yesterday afternoon which Mr B and I, by mutual assent, missed. We didn't miss too much, Val reassured us as she succinctly
brought us up to date with Bowls Club Affairs. It seems they have not found anyone to take my place as Assistant Secretary but I am not going to allow myself to feel guilty about this. Not when I am already feeling guilty about my double dating.
Time was when an evening dinner date was eagerly anticipated and thoroughly enjoyed. Those were the years when the daytime hours were filled with the antics of four boisterous kids and the (very) occasional evening out
seemed, by comparison, the height of sophistication. Prawn Cocktail for starters, steak and chips with all the trimmings for our main course, Black Forest Gateau (what else?) for pudding. All washed down with a bottle of Liebfraumilch. What's not to like?
These days, on account of what Young Faris would call our Great Age, we actually prefer lunch. Or, to be strictly accurate, dinner at lunchtime. We can eat to our heart's content, stack the dish-washer and scrub out
the saucepans and settle down in the evening in the sure and certain knowledge that we will be able to get to bed at a reasonable time. Sad - but true. It comes to us all. You who are scoffing gently at our lack of stamina - just wait and see!
Our next major event, meal-wise, will be on Mothering Sunday when two of the Darling Daughters and their families will arrive for Sunday lunch. Bless them, they are bringing our food with them so all I will have to do is lay
the table. It's the kind of division of labour I appreciate.
The Youngest of the Darling Daughters is devastated that she won't be with us because she has to chaperone at a rehearsal for her youngsters' latest
show, Hairspray (of which, almost certainly, more in a later blog.) She had been looking through old photographs, she lamented on the phone yesterday, and she had always been with me on Mothering Sunday. Instead she would be stuck in a stuffy theatre all day
with a quick lunchtime trip to Macdonalds being the best she could hope for by way of celebration. Never mind, I reminded her, we will be altogether the following weekend when we can celebrate the occasion all over again.
Why have one lunch, when you could have two?