Tuesday, 13 September 2016

Lightning bolt...

A new café opened up yesterday which was just a few steps away from our shed.  There was a generous full English breakfast for the husband and a crammed bacon sandwich for me.  The added bonus was that it was all free.  How can this be, I hear you ask.  Well, it was Open House at the mother's shed this morning, and she offered us breakfast.

This was a welcome break from the 'Eat as Much as You Like' breakfasts which we have been eating.  I always have to remind the husband that this isn't a challenge and that there are no prizes for the most sausages eaten in one session.  But the mother's breakfast was perfect, and we followed this with thirty minutes of Homes under the Hammer.  This was a new one on me, but I went with it.  I mean, you don't want to appear rude in someone else's shed, do you?  By the look of this programme, there are thousands of people buying old wrecks of houses and spending a fortune doing them up.  A smarmy old estate agent then comes along and tells them that they needn't have bothered as they are still in the red.  I really don't know why they bothered.

So yesterday the weather was changeable to say the least.   A five hour thunder storm raged across the bay, but undeterred, we headed off to Lyme Regis for the day.  Coats were on and off more times than I care to count, and with two waterlogged schnauzers we eventually succumbed to alcohol.  In the pub, we encountered a very strange man with a furball on a lead.  My two were not really sure whether they were sniffing at the right end, until the furball started to bark.  The strange chap at the end of the lead, who must have been 6'3" in his socks, and was sporting a Stetson (I told you he was odd) said I could pick her up for a cuddle, which I did. My two dogs were not happy about this, and their eyes narrowed and lips curled to see their owner stroking another puppy.  Hurriedly handing her back, I asked what her name was.  'Fluffy', replied John Wayne in a Glaswegian accent.  At least my dogs have fairly normal names which I don't mind shouting across the beach.  I don't think he could say the same about little Fluffy, though.

As the rain subsided, there were cornets for the two dogs, and cockles for the grown-ups.  For some reason the fish man gave us two cocktail sticks each to eat the cockles with.  For one awful nanosecond, I wondered whether I was to use them as miniature chopsticks, but it appeared that two sticks are better than one when trying to cram as many cockles in your mouth before you have to get back in the car again.  The husband's car was on borrowed time on the meter, hence the rush.

So suitably cockled out, we headed home, all in desperate need of a cup a tea, a sleep and a loosening of the top buttons.  I reckon that's down to the fudge we all ate.  Did I mention that we all bought a large bag of Roly's Crumbly Fudge and pecked at it between cider and cockles?

This is because we are playing East Devon Bingo.  So far, we have ticked off cream teas, fudge, crab sandwiches, ice cream, cider and cockles.  This leaves just fish and chips before I get a full house.

And the prize?

Reinforced knickers by McAlpine and elasticated trousers for a start, rapidly followed by starvation for the next month.

But it would have been worth every delicious mouthful...
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