retiredmartin

November 2023. Addenbrooke’s. Cambridge.

It took me 5 hours to get back from Oldham to Waterbeach, the trip from Sheffield in about 2:20 hours these days, and Dad had already been taken by ambulance to Addenbrooke’s awaiting assessment (alliteration alert).

The antibiotics for a suspected infection kicked in quickly, and I spent the next 24 hours in an A & E bay while he struggled to get some sleep while drunks and druggies were admitted under police supervision through Sunday morning.

“Oy you young lady be quiet” he said, in an odd Fenland accent I’d never heard before.

He’d perked up by Sunday evening and moved to a calmer ward from which I was kicked out to go and check on Mum, whose main concern was that I eat properly. Addenbrookes is a wonderful advert for the NHS, and everyone who looked after Dad was compassionate and helpful, but day after day of Costa and M & S sandwiches was a struggle.

I deserved Chung Hwa.

I also deserved a quick pint in The Sun, I thought.

Actually, 10 minutes wait for the Crispy Beef and Singapore Rice; make that a pint and a half.

The Sun, which a year ago I declared my favourite pub and still would, suffered tragedy this year with the sad death of landlord Andrew, and Helen’s maintenance of standards is a credit to her.

The small lounge on the right houses the bottle collection, the fireplace, the pumps,

and their daughter’s fantastic photography.

It also housed a couple of mates catching up over pints of wonderful Landlord (cool, rich, NBSS 4). Neither of them locals by the sound of it, but then I guess I’m no longer a local.

I intruded on their chat about the Boltmakers Arms in Keighley, the footpaths of Grassington, and memories of setting off gunpowder in a tin pencil box on Bonfire Night.

But suddenly my 10 minutes was up, a pint and a half downed, and heaven in a dish awaited.