Off to Sheffield this morning to deposit Mrs RM’s wardrobe into a storage unit in Hillsborough ahead of a house move I’ll only wrote about if it happens.
“Why are you taking photos of Big Yellow Self Storage” said James, who has never had the responsibility of a blog with 92 views from Hungary in a week.
Big Yellow were a model of charm, cheer and efficiency, even after I asked the chap whether his red-and-white striped mug was in support of Sunderland and Stoke. I GENUINELY had never met a Sheffield United supporter before.
The sun shone (naturally), we emptied the first of about eight loads in 20 minutes, and contemplated a takeaway in Wicker.
The Wicker is one of Sheffield’s famed multi-cultural streets, 5 minutes walk from the centre, the Shakespeare and the Kelham. Nice arches, as they say.
And a piece of modern art entitled “Twisted Sister” after Sheffield’s 1980s rock scene (possibly).
James used to use the gym here; I’d only ever used the famous kebab shops. Like father, like son.
It’s a bit scruffy in an “I wouldn’t walk here after dark”/”You’re a wuss” sort of way.
There’s no pubs, of course, and not just because it’s Lockdown/Tier 3/a Tuesday.
But CAMRAs prefer dead pubs anyway as it gives us something to moan about. Stafford Paul will be able to fill in the detail.
There was a big queue for one takeaway, so we ignored that one and popped in a Yemenese place that was handing over blue bags and cups of tea.
Not only can I not tell you what this place was called (it was just north of the library) but I can’t even read the name of the lamb dish (No.1) we both had because the guy recommended it.
“Did you not want a tea ?” he said, as James picked two cans of Fanta out of the fridge. I wish I’d said yes now, though James noted the addition of about 3 tablespoons of sugar by the assistant so I possibly dodged a bullet.
We scoffed it in the campervan, in silence.
Underneath a ton of rice there was half a lamb.
When I go back, I’ll tell you what it was called, and force James to try a Yemeni desert for you. It’ll pass the time till pubs open (for real).