I’m finally coming round to accepting that I must have a
problem. Not drink – that goes without
saying – but another, irritating little personality flaw that is threatening to
ruin all my social activities and render them fraught with frustration.
I believe I am not alone. Many of us, to some degree, suffer from this
condition. Perhaps even you.
Nigel once bought a book in an airport entitled: “Is
it me, or is everything shit?”
If that title conjures up a smile, or prompts an understanding nod,
then, I’m sorry to say that there is every chance you are already amongst the
afflicted.
I’d like to think, like all grumpy old men and women, that
my particular malady is age-related, but, not so. I’ve always been this way. However, it would appear that my disorder surfaces
primarily in environments where people gather to eat and drink.
I have long since abandoned the good old cafe as a potential
mid-morning meeting spot. A quick cuppa
and a snack in a café never quite did it for me. There was always something …
… tea too strong, or not strong enough; leaky tea pot; coffee
too cold; cup too fat; too much butter on the teacake; not enough butter on the
teacake; chairs too hard; too many pushchairs, too many kids; too many grown
ups – in fact, too many people! Yes, I
realise that to go to public places and be perturbed the presence of the public
might suggest a problem.
Pubs are off the list too – for eating at least. (They’re
okay for drinking – strangely, I don’t find that at all annoying!) Bad pictures of food on sticky plastic menus sporting
a splodge of hard-baked tomato ketchup just don’t make me feel hungry. Added to that, if you manage to find a table
away from the mind-popping fruit machines, then you are likely to be seated in
sight of one of a dozen TVs with god knows who blaring out god knows what. Or, they could always have the football on!
Anyway, I now opt for the relative serenity of Scarborough’s
hotels for my brunch and lunch meets.
But, not surprisingly, given my condition, these trips are not without
tension. Apart from the obligatory
presence of a gigantic TV in even the best hotels, there is one particular
hotel that has everything going for it:
luxurious and cosy settees arranged in friendly groupings; an
inexpensive, leather-bound menu; welcoming and polite staff; easy-listening
music that remains in the background unless you’re stupid enough to sit right
under the speaker. (Yes, I have.) Perfect. You would think.
But, for some reason, they house the lectern where they file
their knives and forks right there in the cosy, quiet, relaxing lounge. And once our order has been placed and we are
trapped, one of those welcoming and polite members of staff feels compelled to
inspect every forking knife, fork and spoon the hotel possesses, flinging them
back in their receptacle with a flourish, from as far away as possible, pausing
only to grab entire handfuls to give them a thoroughly noisy rattling. Why?
Could it be to see how long it takes for my irritation to
turn the milk in my latte sour? Or,
perhaps to encourage me to sod off home?
Well, their encouragement generally works. And apart from that, the food is remarkably
average.
Another hotel, with all the attributes of the former, has
its very own Mrs Overall, whose particular compulsion is to bring out her beloved
Henry as soon as we are seated, and, despite the extremely large and deserted
lounge, focuses her energetic vacuuming entirely around our table. Why?
It’s not that I actively pursue perfection. Not at all. I certainly don’t expect it. But on the rare occasions when I do encounter
it – my outpourings of gratitude border on the positively nauseous.
In spite of the countless imperfections I encounter, I
rarely complain. I’m English after all. I just sit there, disappointed.
I have though, with age, become more confident in asserting
my will. So, when entering a restaurant
and the waiter takes me to a table and says, ‘Is this table okay?’ I often find myself responding, ‘Well,
actually, no, it’s not.’ The reasons for
this are numerous. It might be too near
the door, or a draught, too close to the man with the very loud voice, too near
the open kitchen, too near the loo … and so it goes on …
I have wondered that maybe I should do everybody a favour
and stay at home, just give up on the whole thing. But no.
That would be quitting.
Still, accepting that it is utterly impossible for any
establishment to get a tea or a coffee just right, I will be rescheduling my
brunch meetings in favour of lunch, which means we can go straight for the
wine. I mean, you can’t get a glass of
Pinot wrong can you?
Well … I suppose the
glass might have lipstick on it, or the wine not sufficiently chilled, or…
Oh dear ... I think it
is me!
