Before I give you the taxi driver’s account of BRAPA’s mission to Sheffield the other week, here’s your latest selection from MumsNet.
Remember, the poster is asking “AM I BEING UNREASONABLE ?“
I’m reluctant to offer advice on such weighty matters, but you’ll want to know that the answer to fixing the world’s problems is “Community gardens and orchards“.
My more pressing problem was getting BRAPA round his remaining 4 Sheffield ticks and safely back on the 09:37 to Doncaster, where no doubt he had a pint of 10.1% Imperial Stout waiting for him at the Draftsman.
As you can see from today’s timings, a fair trek at the best of time. But on that Thursday night, with no obvious reason (football, Uni students returning, Mrs RM berating a barman) the approach to the station was heaving.
As Si observed. “WHERE IS IT COMING FROM? WHERE IS IT GOING?” he exasperatedly exhales at five secondly intervals.
It got worse on the 5 mile journey to the Wisewood, as I realised Si would indeed have been better taking the tram to Malin Bridge and walking the last mile into the Peak. Was I ruining his trip ? Would I be relegated to occasional appearance from the subs bench, like Phil Foden.
It didn’t help that the Wisewood is a mini-Brunning & Price (even that light feature is the same as in the other Loxley pubs) with better beer and views,
but at least he wasn’t missing out on any vital banter or drunks from Brightside as I bored him with discussions of the next stages of his trip, involving the Itchy Pig, Ale Club (Eccleshall Road) and Beer House. Or is it Hop Monkey ?
“Er, it’s the ALE House, actually” said Si.
“****, that’s miles away !” I said.
And it was, and it’s a good job that BRAPA went on the navigational course at Saffron Walden Primary School as I had to negotiate 377 sharp turns to weave down the west side of Sheffield.
Still, at least the Ale House was going to be a cracker; darts nights, drunken revelry, and some of the best beer in the GBG. This is it, 2 years ago;
“Simon will love it, but if it’s his sixth pint of the day he may never get there. Or home.“ I wrote then.
As you know now, it was closed. On a Thursday in September. The most unlikely fail so far.
I felt personally fronted. “It’s fine, I’m OK” said Simon, a man on the verge of a breakdown.
I dropped him off in the care of Citra and Will and went home to cry.