Treat time

I'm a toy-boy, by definition, because Little Petal is older than me by more than a year. She's had a rather bad time the last two years with financial troubles and a lifestyle change, loss of her garden, car, and the death of my sister in law recently.

So I thought that, since neither of us had gone out for an evening in several months, we ought to have a treat.

She was born on the same day that her mother was born on, the day before the longest day of the year. Is that strange? I don't know of any other mothers and daughters sharing the same birthday like that.

I took the bike out to go and book a table in the Coppleridge, the same place we took mother to for lunch when we went to see the Duncliffe Bluebells, because, as we sat and had our lunch, I was looking at the table set in a little secluded alcove just behind me, wishing we had chosen it instead, thinking how nice it would be to sit there for an evening, nicely out of the way.

I came to the triangle of grass where the side road to Mere splits off from the road which goes under the railway line into the village, to find that someone had cut the grass there recently, but had very thoughtfully left the two poppies standing.









I booked the table I wanted.

The birthday morning came, lunch drifted by as we both got to grips with ebay having changed lots of categories and mucked up our listings, and the afternoon finished. I began getting dressed up. At the back of the wardrobe is a suit I have kept there for years now, because I was too large to be able to do up the waist fastening of the trousers. I decided that it was worth a try, because I had that very morning got out the leather punch and made yet another new hole in my belt. The trousers drew up without a struggle, and I clipped the fastening in place without even having to breathe in. When did I last have a 34 inch waist? 1991, I think, before I started having double lunches with statistician K (What goes up...: Overweight, and past my use-by date).

The taxi arrived early, unlike most taxis, and we got there for half eight. I had planned on having a drink. Or two. Or slightly more, as it happened. They had a Mexican special night, and we both glanced at the menu, saw Nachos with melted cheese followed by Fajitas, and said "That'll do". We discussed the wine problem, she doesn't like reds because they give her a headache, and I find whites a bit insipid. I was happy to buy her a bottle of white and get myself a bottle of red, but she said she didn't feel like drinking a whole bottle, so in the end we compromised with a bottle of Rose. it was obviously a good wine, because I ended up ordering a second one before we had even got round to thinking about the sweet.

I decided that I was going to tempt fate and test the strength of the trouser fastenings, and had an Italian chocolate mousse, together with a coffee, and ended up stumbling happily out of the inn and into the taxi, with a lighter wallet and a heavier stomach, but the trousers still fitting comfortably.

I wonder if I'll still be able to put on those trousers at the end of the week? At this rate, not only am I going to stay a toy-boy, but I'm going to be a Chippendale candidate.