One last post for you from a night out in Dereham that ought to feature in the Breckland tourist brochure rather than all those trees.
I must be getting old and boring. Four trips to Dereham, four curries in Spice Fusion.
“You’re not having Chicken Dhansak AGAIN” you cry.
Mrs RM had drunk enough, even for her, so I had to share one of those big 660ml bottles of Bangla with Charles. It’s actually Bass, you know, but don’t tell Wickingman.
A comical moment at the end, as it seemed that we’d almost inadvertently bought the “banquet”, which had to be paid for in cash. Who carries cash ?
People who end the night in a Craft Union boozer, that’s who.
I wanted several mugs of black coffee in Charles’s nice house; Mrs RM said “Go on” more times than Mrs Doyle.
And in we went.
Some people like to drink after curry. I hate it (See: the Bradford running down a hill after Mango Lassi at the International incident).
So Mrs RM and I stuck to G & T while Charles had a Hooky. I’ve no idea what NBSS he scored, but the whole thing cost about 6/ 3d I think.
Is there really a pandemic ?
You wouldn’t think so in the Red Lion, thank goodness. A table of six blokes watching Saint Marcus Rashford lead Man Ure to a routine victory, though all I remember was a debate on lipstick. It was late.
A Dereham delight, again, only spoilt when I arrived back at the campervan to find that Baa Baa Toure had got a bit soaked after I’d left him atop the roof while we were out.
He’s not happy.