I think I’ve been banned from MumsNet. After a year of raiding their treasure trove of accidental ludicrousness as a lurker I can’t load the latest articles about Christmas dilemmas and nitpick collagues without signing up, and who knows where that leads.
So I may miss out on Pashmina Petra from Parson’s Green telling us “The North is an acquired taste…be very careful“, and recommending that we all move to Norfolk, which is delightful.
It really isn’t. Unless you’re the Royal Family.
The Ffolkes Arms is equidistant from Sandringham House and the unrelenting hell of North Lynn on the A148 to Cromer, and greets you at the door as Her Majesty (get well soon) might expect to be greeted if she popped in for a pint of Ghost Ship over her Christmas break.
Is that a painting of Cromwell on the back wall ?
I stand at the bar for 2 minutes while the staff attend to a group of “North Londoners” getting their coffee topped up because they can’t do it themselves, and decide on the house beer because that’s what you’re required to do so you can make a little joke at the bar about pronunciation etc.
The barman returns to the Londoners, I try to find a suitable table. As a non-diner, I think I’m expected to sit on the high table, but I rebel and head for the Games Room/Pie Shop, obviously.
Have you ever seen anything so affected in your life ?
Of course most North Londoners have games rooms like this in their own houses so staying at the Ffolkes Hayloft for £275 a night feels like home.
This is my idea of hell, ffolks, and even worse the beer is undrinkable, and I’m not waiting at the bar again to take it back.
My first plant pot pour of the year. And it felt good.