retiredmartin

December 2024. Cambridge.

With Mum safely tucked up for the night I rejoined Mrs RM, the boys and Emma in Cambridge. We’d really pushed the boat out for what some folk insist is a “significant” birthday; I’ll remind you that every day till you stop breathing is significant and should be celebrated equally.

Yes, we were all staying in the Travelodge opposite Wrestlers, in advance of a trip into Kent to visit the in-laws and then more family duties on Christmas Day.

Really, who wants to be in their hometown on their birthday.

Still, only 11 minutes to crafty Blue Moon (it would have been 9 but I didn’t realise there was a back door from the Travelodge and had to take the long route. Told you it was a bad day).

I didn’t really want to be reminded of City’s horrendous form, but the Blue Moon is somewhere young folk go,

for music and pizza and craft keg.

“Don’t they have Proper Beer like Stella” says Matt, alarmed at paying £9/pint for Panna Cotta Sour (top) from his home village. Of course, no-one drinks sours in pints, if at all.

Pastore do it best, though, and the other kegs are pretty good too, though there’s alarmingly few trips made to the bar by anyone in the half hour we’re there.

It’s obviously easier to string out a Walnut and Tonka stout than a pint of cask.

Emma liked it, particularly the gig room with candles on the table, and we could have finished the night there. But someone wanted to walk through a graveyard on their birthday, didn’t they…