Sometime in mid September, I think. You left me in Leeds, I rejoin you in the breakfast room at Shipley IBIS the next morning.
Mrs RM was working a week of mornings which started with her bellowing “Bonjour” into her laptop so it was time to escape. “Bonjour” is foreign for “what do you want NOW ?”.
The young barman at my Shipley preemptive tick had given me the lowdown on the town centre, and it suddenly struck me I could only think of the Spoons there.
But what’s this ?
Looks ancient, I wondered if it might be a Sam Smiths, but the Cricketers is a mysterious music venue opened last year. Reports please, as they say.
Shipley isn’t pretty, particularly if you’ve just visited the marvels of Saltaire next door. And the unprepossessing Hockney pub has only seem Alan Winfield enter, and report back. Alan scored 7.
I joined the throngs in the giant Asda, stocking up on clothes for the next year/ decade, and admired the clock.
No trendy coffee shops yet, so the space age like Norman Rae it is.
Yorkshire’s Spoons buck the trend in reducing the pump count again.
If you think I’m drinking pints of Wobbly Bob to entertain you, you’re mistaken.
I’ve also spared you pics of the breakfast, which reached McDonald’s levels of inedibility, but the hash browns could be useful if you run out of paperweights.
My free entertainment came from the table attempting to explain the travel/Covid requirements for their impending holiday in Spain.
In 20 minutes I learnt what LAFs, PCRs, and 2 day reporting were, and realised why I’d be sticking to Tenby rather than tempting fate in Tenerife for the foreseeable future.