That was the weekend that was

To Nottingham to visit the grandparents (Dave’s) and friends (also Dave’s); inbetween the two we drive around Wollaton trying to find lit up houses. The best turns out to be next door to Kathryn’s - it gets extra points for inflatables. Champagne and olives and Secret Santa pressies, then taxi to Savai; an Italian place which is passable although David notices the sous-chef failing to wash his hands after using the toilet. Weird to be out of London. People smile and let you past without shoving. They make eye contact. They get dressed up (boys in shirt and ties, girls in very little) to go out for a pizza. Taxi drivers chat and let you off 50p of the fare.

And odd to be with a different bunch of people; they’re so functional and friendly and turn up at the right time, bringing wine and sausages and crackers. They talk about cars and house prices and weddings and babies and things. Back at the house I fall asleep over port and parlour games and am shocked that only two people know who Barack Obama is.

Unbreakfasted, we refuse Charlotte’s offer of a game of pitch and putt and head for lunch at the Lincolnshire Poacher, one of my very favourite pubs, before meeting Charl and Did at another pub and going to see the new house, enviously. Bathrooms! Garden! Big squashy chairs! Tempting to sit there for a few hours but the A1 calls: the windscreen misting, trees frosting, red and white head and tail lights glowing like Christmas lanterns, glittery shimmering music accompanying our Xmassy trip all the way back to London.

Monday we had an Xmas drinks at t'Chandos with the usual suspects in which a card tower competition was held. Heike claimed victory:

That was the weekend that was

To Nottingham to visit the grandparents (Dave’s) and friends (also Dave’s); inbetween the two we drive around Wollaton trying to find lit up houses. The best turns out to be next door to Kathryn’s - it gets extra points for inflatables. Champagne and olives and Secret Santa pressies, then taxi to Savai; an Italian place which is passable although David notices the sous-chef failing to wash his hands after using the toilet. Weird to be out of London. People smile and let you past without shoving. They make eye contact. They get dressed up (boys in shirt and ties, girls in very little) to go out for a pizza. Taxi drivers chat and let you off 50p of the fare.

And odd to be with a different bunch of people; they’re so functional and friendly and turn up at the right time, bringing wine and sausages and crackers. They talk about cars and house prices and weddings and babies and things. Back at the house I fall asleep over port and parlour games and am shocked that only two people know who Barack Obama is.

Unbreakfasted, we refuse Charlotte’s offer of a game of pitch and putt and head for lunch at the Lincolnshire Poacher, one of my very favourite pubs, before meeting Charl and Did at another pub and going to see the new house, enviously. Bathrooms! Garden! Big squashy chairs! Tempting to sit there for a few hours but the A1 calls: the windscreen misting, trees frosting, red and white head and tail lights glowing like Christmas lanterns, glittery shimmering music accompanying our Xmassy trip all the way back to London.

Monday we had an Xmas drinks at t'Chandos with the usual suspects in which a card tower competition was held. Heike claimed victory: