Harold’s story about Sven almost had me going …. Until I looked at the date of issue and saw that last month’s BEM came out on 1st April! Nice try, dear. Not so much Deliverance as Riverdance. Fatty has now taken up sumo-wrestling in an attempt to impress Mrs Akiko. So if you ever happen across a large man in a nappy whilst wandering in the Pieniny, you’ll know who it is.
The lovely weather has finally arrived, and I shall be investigating some new venues for outdoor eating and drinking in the weeks to come. Sadly, we have been unable to get out much recently as Harold’s been rather incapacitated by an ingrowing toenail. He stomps around the house with his walking stick, barking orders and squealing in pain every time he kicks the cat. All he needs is a long leather coat and he’d be a dead ringer for Herr Flick. I have had a little trouble being suitably sympathetic, like all men he’s quite unbearable when he’s cooped up indoors. And to be honest, I don’t recall promising in our wedding vows to run up and down the stairs several times a day with fresh cans of chilled Zywiec and switch the telly over from the cricket to the snooker at His Lordship’s command. And I absolutely draw the line at wheeling him down to the pub in his bath chair for his six o’clock pre-prandial. In a nurse’s uniform. (Me, not him).
Eventually I felt the only solution was to call in a German doctor, who took one look at Harold’s toe and announced it would have to be amputated. It was amazing how quickly he recovered – he was off to the bowling alley like greased lightning. Doctor Klampwangler (she’s a Doctor of Engineering, acually, hence her threat to re-calibrate Harold’s foot!) and I had a good laugh afterwards over a nice bottle of Niersteiner Spätlese and some Battenberg cake. Dr K is a somewhat eccentric woman, with her lederhosen and monocle, but a damn good neighbour. One night we thought we were being burgled (in fact it was just the local cats attacking the bin bags which Harold had been too idle to put away) she was round like a shot in her Panzer, with a starting pistol in one hand and an assault rifle in the other. She looked quite terrifying, with her hair in rollers and a quilted housecoat on over her uniform. Harold, for once, was speechless.
Talking of hair-trigger reactions, we spotted Bodger last week going down Jerozolimskie much too fast on his Kawasaki 750, with Myfanwy on the back – we knew it was them, as no-one else wears his ‘n hers balaclavas. Not on top of their crash helmets, anyway. He was on his way to run in the Sir Harry Secombe memorial half-marathon, running with a rucksack full of bricks and wearing army boots. He was in training for ages, cycling up and down Pulawska with a 20 kilo sack of potatoes on his back. Good job he didn’t get knocked down by a car, he would have looked like a shepherd’s pie.
Bodger’s matter-of-fact approach to things is legendary. One Sunday afternoon last summer we didn’t flinch when he abseiled through the French windows. We waited patiently while he darted from room to room shouting “Bandits at 3 o’clock !” and “Look out, they’re on the roof!”. Finally, satisfied that the house was safe, he consented to have a cup of tea and a vol-au-vent. Conversation proved to be a bit difficult in morse code, so he resorted to a stage whisper. “Really, Bodger, don’t you think this is a little over the top?” I protested, “After all, you’ve only come round to borrow the strimmer.”
I’m afraid I’ve waffled on about nothing in particular this week, largely through lack of restaurants in Warsaw to review. However, before I go, I must thank my old friend the Dowager Duchess of Southend for unearthing a real treasure in London recently – the Vincent Room restaurant, just across the street from Simply Nico (Vincent Square, on the corner of Rochester Row, SW1). The food is simply heavenly, the service is impeccable, and the price is …. £12.50 a head! I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. It’s actually the training restaurant for Westminster College of Catering, and hence is only open during termtime, and weekdays (Monday to Friday lunch, Tuesday dinner).
The Duchess is an old friend who I take out for an airing when I am in town. Although quite old and frail now, she is still elegant, and looked quite the part at lunch in her ballgown and tiara, although in her hurry to be on time she’d forgotten her wig, bless her. Peering through her lorgnette at the menu, she mentioned that Jamie Harriott, her favourite TV chef, had studied at this very college. I smiled indulgently – I knew she meant Ainsley Oliver, but I didn’t want to nitpick. She can get a bit forgetful after four double scotches. After a delightful lunch, I steered her back to her ancestral council flat, where she reminisced over her colourful life. She came from very humble beginnings, starting out as a lavatory cleaner in the House of Lords where she met the 14th Duke of Southend. The old duke has passed on now, but Imelda (as she likes to be known, although her real name is Maureen) is still a well known character in the locality, dressed in her trademark odd slippers and ermine-trimmed Brentford nylons dressing gown.
Anyway, must fly – Harold’s signed me up at the Academy of Rural and Ethnic Nature Appreciation (ARENA) for Pole-dancing classes - sounds like Polish Morris dancing! Toodle-oo!
The lovely weather has finally arrived, and I shall be investigating some new venues for outdoor eating and drinking in the weeks to come. Sadly, we have been unable to get out much recently as Harold’s been rather incapacitated by an ingrowing toenail. He stomps around the house with his walking stick, barking orders and squealing in pain every time he kicks the cat. All he needs is a long leather coat and he’d be a dead ringer for Herr Flick. I have had a little trouble being suitably sympathetic, like all men he’s quite unbearable when he’s cooped up indoors. And to be honest, I don’t recall promising in our wedding vows to run up and down the stairs several times a day with fresh cans of chilled Zywiec and switch the telly over from the cricket to the snooker at His Lordship’s command. And I absolutely draw the line at wheeling him down to the pub in his bath chair for his six o’clock pre-prandial. In a nurse’s uniform. (Me, not him).
Eventually I felt the only solution was to call in a German doctor, who took one look at Harold’s toe and announced it would have to be amputated. It was amazing how quickly he recovered – he was off to the bowling alley like greased lightning. Doctor Klampwangler (she’s a Doctor of Engineering, acually, hence her threat to re-calibrate Harold’s foot!) and I had a good laugh afterwards over a nice bottle of Niersteiner Spätlese and some Battenberg cake. Dr K is a somewhat eccentric woman, with her lederhosen and monocle, but a damn good neighbour. One night we thought we were being burgled (in fact it was just the local cats attacking the bin bags which Harold had been too idle to put away) she was round like a shot in her Panzer, with a starting pistol in one hand and an assault rifle in the other. She looked quite terrifying, with her hair in rollers and a quilted housecoat on over her uniform. Harold, for once, was speechless.
Talking of hair-trigger reactions, we spotted Bodger last week going down Jerozolimskie much too fast on his Kawasaki 750, with Myfanwy on the back – we knew it was them, as no-one else wears his ‘n hers balaclavas. Not on top of their crash helmets, anyway. He was on his way to run in the Sir Harry Secombe memorial half-marathon, running with a rucksack full of bricks and wearing army boots. He was in training for ages, cycling up and down Pulawska with a 20 kilo sack of potatoes on his back. Good job he didn’t get knocked down by a car, he would have looked like a shepherd’s pie.
Bodger’s matter-of-fact approach to things is legendary. One Sunday afternoon last summer we didn’t flinch when he abseiled through the French windows. We waited patiently while he darted from room to room shouting “Bandits at 3 o’clock !” and “Look out, they’re on the roof!”. Finally, satisfied that the house was safe, he consented to have a cup of tea and a vol-au-vent. Conversation proved to be a bit difficult in morse code, so he resorted to a stage whisper. “Really, Bodger, don’t you think this is a little over the top?” I protested, “After all, you’ve only come round to borrow the strimmer.”
I’m afraid I’ve waffled on about nothing in particular this week, largely through lack of restaurants in Warsaw to review. However, before I go, I must thank my old friend the Dowager Duchess of Southend for unearthing a real treasure in London recently – the Vincent Room restaurant, just across the street from Simply Nico (Vincent Square, on the corner of Rochester Row, SW1). The food is simply heavenly, the service is impeccable, and the price is …. £12.50 a head! I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. It’s actually the training restaurant for Westminster College of Catering, and hence is only open during termtime, and weekdays (Monday to Friday lunch, Tuesday dinner).
The Duchess is an old friend who I take out for an airing when I am in town. Although quite old and frail now, she is still elegant, and looked quite the part at lunch in her ballgown and tiara, although in her hurry to be on time she’d forgotten her wig, bless her. Peering through her lorgnette at the menu, she mentioned that Jamie Harriott, her favourite TV chef, had studied at this very college. I smiled indulgently – I knew she meant Ainsley Oliver, but I didn’t want to nitpick. She can get a bit forgetful after four double scotches. After a delightful lunch, I steered her back to her ancestral council flat, where she reminisced over her colourful life. She came from very humble beginnings, starting out as a lavatory cleaner in the House of Lords where she met the 14th Duke of Southend. The old duke has passed on now, but Imelda (as she likes to be known, although her real name is Maureen) is still a well known character in the locality, dressed in her trademark odd slippers and ermine-trimmed Brentford nylons dressing gown.
Anyway, must fly – Harold’s signed me up at the Academy of Rural and Ethnic Nature Appreciation (ARENA) for Pole-dancing classes - sounds like Polish Morris dancing! Toodle-oo!
