We had a lovely day yesterday. We decided on a very muddy walk over the fields to a pub in the neighbouring village to see about securing a table for Sunday lunch. They were full unfortunately but we were wearing boots caked with mud and had a damp whippet in tow so it probably wouldn’t have been the wisest of decisions anyway. The journey wasn’t wasted though, as we bumped into the old crowd who have since forsaken the Local, and had a nice catch-up with them. The F-I-L also came over meaning that we cadged a lift home and, after a change of footwear and leaving the whippet happily gnawing on a pig’s ear, we headed off to the other neighbouring village to try our luck at the pub there. Thankfully due to a party not turning up, we managed to score a table for three.
Dinner was immense. I might even go so far as to describe it as ‘epic’, using the original definition of the word rather than in the modern day parlance that the kids have probably long since abandoned for a brand new buzzword. It really was a mammoth feast: a giant Yorkshire pudding, perfectly charred roast potatoes, buttery mashed potatoes, crunchy broccoli, carrot and parsnips, peas, delicious braised red cabbage as well as the addition of goats’ cheese-filled field mushrooms and a side of veggie gravy for me. Despite its size, I managed to wolf if down shamefully quickly (I skipped breakfast). The F-I-L actually ate quite a lot, for him, but his plate didn’t even look as if it had been dented so Mr P polished off the majority of his as well. How any of the diners manage to fit in a pudding is unbelievable.
From there we nipped for a drink in our village and were soon joined by Mr B. He was in the process of bidding on a big power saw thing (technical name) on ebay and stated that his maximum bid would be £650. When he went to the bar, the F-I-L exclaimed that he thought Mr B didn’t have any money. It’s true that this is one of Mr B’s many laments: he’ll never stand a round in the pub and often turns up at house parties and gatherings empty-handed much to his girlfriend’s embarrassment. The thing is, the F-I-L is a bit deaf and, to compensate for this, he talks very loudly. He said this in his usual tone of voice whilst Mr B was standing right behind him. No-one commented though and I imagine Mr B chose to ignore the comment to save our blushes.
We went home and had a quiet night watching High Rise which is a freaky-ass film and very compelling.
On the Saturday, Mr P gave himself the day off work and enjoyed a morning kick-around with the B-I-L and Little S before they headed back to Cornwall. Afterwards, The Blonde Sister and B-I-L invited us to join them at the pub for a drink. Whilst we were in the outdoor pay area, Little V and Little P were perfectly happy but once we defected inside due to the dropping temperatures, Little P kicked off big time and Little V kept running up and down the, thankfully empty, restaurant, moving all of the cutlery on the tables. When The Blonde Sister implored the B-I-L to just let the twins be, he retorted that it would be him that had to tidy everything up after them to which The Blonde Sister snapped that he’d ‘barely seen them all week’ at which point I leapt in to change the subject lest a full-blown ruck ensue.
The B-I-L stayed out with us for a other couple of pints, at The Blonde Sister’s insistence. It upsets me to see them like this after knowing how happy they were when they were child-free. I know parents with toddlers struggle and that having two must be a nightmare but it’s another big cross in the con column of my personal pregnancy list. I shall see if The Blonde Sister’s free for a beer in the week to let her blow off steam and rant at me rather than laying it all on the B-I-L. Everyone tells them that things will get easier as the twins get older but Christ, their third birthday seems like a long way away.