November 2026. Sheffield.
I don’t know how folk with a full time job and dependent children cope with parental death and infirmity. In retirement it’s been draining making weekly trips up and down the motorways from Sheffield to Cambridge, and Tunbridge Wells, and back.
Four trips to Cambridge in the fortnight following Dad’s death, all with an overnight stay in the venerable Orchard Park Travelodge, whose two closest pubs are sadly now keg.
On the Monday I met the funeral director and registered the death (it has to be done in the county of death within five days of the cause of death being confirmed) to get the “green form” for burial, while my sister came up with a lovely Facebook announcement;
3 hours later I’m back in Sheffield, where Mrs RM’s invitation to “pizza in the Blind Monkey” is more like a instruction.
You really should visit your local, even if it’s only 45 seconds away. It’s your duty to have firm opinions on your closest pub.
They’ve started opening Mondays, and ditched the Sky TV no-one much watched, and with cheery staff and good pizza it’s always a good night.
The cask in the Blind Monkey is GOOD or better, but I’m in a Paulaner mood. Those Octoberfest beers are hanging about in the UK.
It’s better than that Augustiner that’s been doing the rounds if I’m honest.
Mrs RM is surprised her Nightjar milk stout is dark, but rates it highly.
You’re allowed pineapple on your pizza here, a big plus.
We discuss the funeral arrangements, without much enthusiasm, and I decide it’s Orval time.
It nevers fails.
