We went to the previously postponed ‘Tea And Tales at The Mill’ on Sunday. It had been part of March’s WORDfest, I’m not sure where the three intervening months disappeared to.
Now, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but being read original versions of Grimm’s fairy tales, and HG Wells in front of a rotating mill wheel probably wouldn’t have been the first thing to spring to mind. It also pointed out how we take Disney versions of fairy tales to be gospel. Pigeons instead of fairy godmothers, cutting off parts of feet, they didn’t appear on screen in Cinderella.
But it was good, and the location is an unusual one to do this sort of thing, perhaps somewhere to bear in mind for next year’s WORDfest for the writing group.
Afterwards it was across country to the Plough for food. Only for them to be fully booked. We went to sit on the bench opposite the pub to check out alternate locations for lunch, only for one of the blokes from the pub to come out and say they could squeeze us in in five minutes time. Nice. Glad we sat down to work out where to go instead of doing it on the move.
There were a couple of old dears having Sunday lunch in the corner of the pub. I heard one say to the other that she didn’t drink. I suppose it could have been non-alcoholic wine in the large glass she was guzzling from.
They were also talking about going to Ibiza. We were laughing at the images that was conjuring up. The ones of some poor lad waking up the morning after with someone’s granny lying next to him. For some reason Obie Trice’s “Got Some Teeth” springs to mind.
Elsewhere I could hear one of the blokes from the pub telling another table ‘you can have double cabbage next week.’ I’m going to assume they actually want double cabbage. As to me it sounds more like a threat or a punishment. I’m tempted to run screaming from the pub. “NO, please don’t make me have the double cabbage. I promise I’ll be good from now on.” Or it sounds like something the old dear might say to the young lad in Ibiza. “Thanks for last night sonny, you can have double cabbage later.”
Single cabbage was bad enough, at least I could get rid of the case with the syrup pudding, which came in enough cream to float a battleship. And it still wasn’t as large as Helen’s sticky toffee pudding. At least we’d got a few miles to wander home to walk some of it off.