On Saturday we headed back down the M23 for the 3rd time in a fortnight, as Mrs RM has her heart set on a small campervan she’ll use for her exciting projects in Brighton, Maidenhead and Aberdeen.
I’ve perfected the “bored husband who knows better than to argue with his wife” look to perfection.
If Mrs RM proceeds she’s got a six month wait as Sussex Campervans make their products from reconstituted Ladas and moonrock, I think.
Still, two ticks on the way back.
One of them the ubiquitous “brewery tap that might be closed“.
Only problem with Pilgrim was finding it, tucked on a courtyard overlooking the playing grounds of Old Reigatians RFC.
Actually the real danger was losing Mrs RM, who in 2 minutes had lost track of me twice.
We headed for the room with the soft furnishings, forgetting we were in Surrey.
Actually, that’s the Gents.
Mrs RM muttered those immortal words, “Strong one. And crisps” and bagged one of half a dozen tables, the sort built for six that micros specialise in.
I took my place at the bar behind a chap ordering a flight.
Now, I’ve no problems with flights and tasters. I just think they should be banished to the fires of Hell along with jam jars and Adnams glasses, that’s all.
Five minutes I stood there while the barman dilligently filled six third glasses and dilligently sliced the foam off, Boddington style.
Mrs RM gave me that expression that says “Why are you being so slow?”.
Just as the last third was lovingly deposited in the flight, another bloke approached the bar.
“Who’s next?”. Grief. There were two of us. Oh, sorry, I forget you become invisible at 50.
Actually, the barman was charming and friendly and focused on his task so I shouldn’t take it personally.
I had the strong one on keg and the weak one on cask and the keg was a thousand times better, but at least Mrs RM was happy.
And then the table of Reigatians started to sing.