So as you know, last night Miss R treated the husband and I to a Big Night Out. We had VIP tickets to go to Tom Kerridge's 'Pub in the Park'. which was marketed as 'Gourmet Food, Cracking Music and Lush Vibes'. At that point, there was no mention of alcohol, but I assumed that as Miss R had booked the tickets, then that was a given. Having spoken to someone who had been there the night before, we were warned about long queues for the food and drink, so we did the very sensible thing and had a quick bowl of pasta in a restaurant on the way to the park.
It was a great night. Out VIP passes allowed us to go into a beautiful Moroccan-style marquee where free Prosecco was on tap all night. I wasn't drinking, as I had won the driver's card for the night, but Miss R took full advantage of the free bubbles, and was seen clutching three plastic cups at a time as she returned from the bar, each time taking a less direct route back.
There were lots of foodie stalls which I love, and the husband was soon ensconced at a cheese stall, which had a plate of Cornish Blue for sampling. Having polished off one plate, and then started another, this time accompanied with the onion chutney which was also on sale, I glanced up at the stall holder who was looking concerned that the gentleman in front of her was going to eat her entire cheese supply. Feeling really guilty, I grabbed the largest jar of chutney and a lump of cheese and thrust a £20 note at her. This went into the shopping bag, and remained our only purchase, although if I hadn't kept a close eye on the husband, you could have added a pizza oven, collapsible fire pit and several bottles of toffee vodka to the lonely cheese.
It was then on to see James Morrison. Yet again, our VIP tickets came up trumps as we were herded into a small holding pen at the front. He wouldn't be someone I would normally go and see, but I just love any kind of live music so I was bopping along with the rest of the crowd, and humming along as I didn't know the words. This was only marred by the arrival of two snogging hobbits who decided to put on a very public display of affection right under my nose. Shuffling over slightly, I had a man in front of me who was so tall that he probably dusts the snow from the top of his head each morning, but at least he kept still, so I could peek out from behind his knees to watch Mr Morrison.
The only problem with my shift of position was that I was now standing next to a couple of twerps who had run amok around the food stalls. The last ten minutes of the concert were spent with a large wedge of cheese (probably that bloody Cornish Blue) being banged rhythmically against the side of my leg.
As the concert drew to an end, the husband leaned over my shoulder and said 'that he's not done bad for a squaddie'. Now as you know, music is not the husband's forte, and I am only presuming that he was confusing the chap on the stage, who has had a string of successful albums over the last ten years or so, with some bloke he saw on X Factor last year.
Oh bless him...