Someone once said that Adrian Mole at 60 would be a lot like Harold. What a cheek! Harold has no pretentions to be an intellectual, and certainly doesn’t go around scattering his seed with gay abandon like that Mole chap. Although I must say the delectable Pandora does remind me a tad of myself in my younger days.
So much for my current bedside reading. We have passed up our winter jaunt to the mountains this year in favour of something closer to home. “Sven” was so disappointed he went off skiing on his own (!) leaving Harold intending to stay glued to his armchair in front of the Six Nations, but I was determined to catch up on the cultural delights of Warsaw. The Impressionist exhibition at the National Museum is a must-see, the courtyard has been turned into a replica of Montmartre, so you can get yourself into a Gallic frame of mind while you’re waiting to go in. Harold did just that, entertaining the waiting queues of schoolgirls with his Maurice Chevalier impression and singing “Zank ‘eaven for leedle gurls”. Inside the exhibition, Harold said the Renoir ladies looked like me cutting my toenails in the bathroom. That’s the most romantic thing he’s said in ages.
I also dragged Harold off for a night at the Opera. He wasn’t very keen to start with, but once we got there he loved it. He sat open-mouthed in rapture, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, soaking up the performance. My enjoyment was slightly spoiled by an intermittent rumbling noise, must have been the metro passing underneath. In the bar afterwards, I asked Harold how he’d enjoyed his first opera. He replied that he’d been transported to another world, which just goes to show - he’s quite a culture vulture really!
Or do I mean vampire? We went for a Valentine’s dinner at the Marriott’s Chicago Grill. It might not seem like the most romantic spot in town, but at least Harold can see what he’s eating. Despite the panic over BSE, they are still serving prime beef. Harold’s always said it wouldn’t make any difference in my case, amyway. Neither of us has ever been to Chicago, but I can’t imagine it is anything like the Chicago Grill - nobody was wearing a stetson hat for one thing. In fact, nobody was eating in there at all. When we saw the menu we realized why - the Marriott is suffering from mad price disease. However, we were already seated and I was far too overdressed to go slumming it downstairs at Champions, so we decided to see it through. When the waitress asked how Harold would like his steak, he slapped his knee and answered in what was supposed to be a mid-Atlantic twang: “Just wipe its ass and throw it on the plate, honey!” She took him at his word. The cow (vegetarians look away now) was only just dead, and the meat was bright red and glistening ... Harold’s fangs flashed once, and then his face was in his plate, and all that could be heard were chomping and slurping sounds. When he had finished, the waitress was nowhere to be seen! I started to feel a bit queasy when he got very insistent that we be home before midnight… there really is something of the night about Harold occasionally. Lucky I eat a lot of garlic. Happily, it transpired that he just wanted to catch the football results! What a relief. Sometimes I let my imagination run wild.
For the record, Harold’s 16 oz. Porterhouse steak was succulent, and my 8 oz. peppered fillet melted in the mouth. Everything is prepared tableside - but for the price (I daren’t say how much, the Inland Revenue might be reading) I think there should have been a rodeo show thrown in and Dolly Parton singing some country and western classics. Harold agrees (at least about Dolly Parton). I may turn out to be the most expensive mad cow in Warsaw.
So much for my current bedside reading. We have passed up our winter jaunt to the mountains this year in favour of something closer to home. “Sven” was so disappointed he went off skiing on his own (!) leaving Harold intending to stay glued to his armchair in front of the Six Nations, but I was determined to catch up on the cultural delights of Warsaw. The Impressionist exhibition at the National Museum is a must-see, the courtyard has been turned into a replica of Montmartre, so you can get yourself into a Gallic frame of mind while you’re waiting to go in. Harold did just that, entertaining the waiting queues of schoolgirls with his Maurice Chevalier impression and singing “Zank ‘eaven for leedle gurls”. Inside the exhibition, Harold said the Renoir ladies looked like me cutting my toenails in the bathroom. That’s the most romantic thing he’s said in ages.
I also dragged Harold off for a night at the Opera. He wasn’t very keen to start with, but once we got there he loved it. He sat open-mouthed in rapture, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, soaking up the performance. My enjoyment was slightly spoiled by an intermittent rumbling noise, must have been the metro passing underneath. In the bar afterwards, I asked Harold how he’d enjoyed his first opera. He replied that he’d been transported to another world, which just goes to show - he’s quite a culture vulture really!
Or do I mean vampire? We went for a Valentine’s dinner at the Marriott’s Chicago Grill. It might not seem like the most romantic spot in town, but at least Harold can see what he’s eating. Despite the panic over BSE, they are still serving prime beef. Harold’s always said it wouldn’t make any difference in my case, amyway. Neither of us has ever been to Chicago, but I can’t imagine it is anything like the Chicago Grill - nobody was wearing a stetson hat for one thing. In fact, nobody was eating in there at all. When we saw the menu we realized why - the Marriott is suffering from mad price disease. However, we were already seated and I was far too overdressed to go slumming it downstairs at Champions, so we decided to see it through. When the waitress asked how Harold would like his steak, he slapped his knee and answered in what was supposed to be a mid-Atlantic twang: “Just wipe its ass and throw it on the plate, honey!” She took him at his word. The cow (vegetarians look away now) was only just dead, and the meat was bright red and glistening ... Harold’s fangs flashed once, and then his face was in his plate, and all that could be heard were chomping and slurping sounds. When he had finished, the waitress was nowhere to be seen! I started to feel a bit queasy when he got very insistent that we be home before midnight… there really is something of the night about Harold occasionally. Lucky I eat a lot of garlic. Happily, it transpired that he just wanted to catch the football results! What a relief. Sometimes I let my imagination run wild.
For the record, Harold’s 16 oz. Porterhouse steak was succulent, and my 8 oz. peppered fillet melted in the mouth. Everything is prepared tableside - but for the price (I daren’t say how much, the Inland Revenue might be reading) I think there should have been a rodeo show thrown in and Dolly Parton singing some country and western classics. Harold agrees (at least about Dolly Parton). I may turn out to be the most expensive mad cow in Warsaw.
