A Boys Day Out

 Wednesday 15th January

Alan is the husband of Lynda

Lynda is the cousin of Pat

Terry (that’s me) is the husband of Pat

Tenuous as it may seem that must mean that Alan and I are linked as family members. Is there a term for that relationship? Maybe ‘ husbands of cousins in law? Probably not but the term particular to us is definitely GREAT MATES.

We have a day out together 3/4 times a year when we meet up either in Basildon or Upminster and have a couple of drinks, a meal and a long chat about anything and everything that is relevant at the time. It’s a nice relaxing day and I always look forward to it.

Alan is my type of guy, he has strong and good principles and sticks to them and expects the people around him to adhere to his own high standards. Despite the fact that he is in his late 70’s he is still a good looking guy but there is one thing about him that aggravates me and that is, whether he is booted and suited or dressed casually, he always looks smart. We’ve had Punk, Goth and Hoodies etc but I’m still waiting for ‘scruffy’ to come into vogue. I’ve been leading the way for years. There was one occasion however that his immaculate appearance was to my advantage. “Do tell” I can hear you saying, so I will.

It was in the year 20??, Pat’s 70th birthday was looming and I needed to do something special to celebrate the occasion. One of the things she really enjoys is to eat in nice restaurants so this seemed the ideal way to mark this particular birthday. No special event can be fully enjoyed by her without Lynda and Alan being present because although they are cousins Pat and Lynda are more like sisters (my telephone bill testifies to that).

Where to go that is really special? That was my dilemma so one morning I put on my best clobber, including a tie, in order to scour the swanky restaurants of the West End. Pat must have had a fit when she saw me wearing  a tie and probably thought I had a date with Kylie Minogue (I wished) or was going for an audition for Love Island. I didn’t tell her where I was going or what I was doing. It had to be a secret right to the last minute. All the restaurants I investigated that day had one thing in common, they were extremely expensive but with a limited bill of fare. It finally dawned on me that I would be paying for the experience more than the food or drink so I changed tack and made my decision based upon the splendour of the establishment.

My decision made, I entered the lobby of the hotel/restaurant (I won’t name it but it has a biscuit named after it or visa versa I’m not sure which) and immediately came under the scrutiny of several of the staff who were checking that I was upholding the dress code. The margin in my favour appeared to be wafer thin but I was allowed to walk along the long corridor to the restaurant booking desk. Now I know how a condemned man feels on the long last walk.

A very nice young lady greeted me at the desk having watched me for several minutes probably wondering whether I was going to make a booking or fix the plumbing. I gave her the date and time I wanted and advised that the booking would be for four people. The details recorded, she then pointed out that a strict dress code was applicable. Here I was looking my very best and she was casting nasturtions on my appearance. The walk back along the corridor was even more nerve wracking.

 I arranged to meet Lynda and Alan in a little pub around the corner from the hotel on the due date having already having sworn them to secrecy but didn’t tell Pat that we were going out on her birthday and to dress up until a few days beforehand but still didn’t tell her where.

We had a drink and then walked the short distance to the hotel and when we entered the lobby I made sure that I was behind Alan who was as immaculately dressed as always. Throughout the walk down that long corridor I brought up the rear, including when we reached the booking desk, and when I confirmed who we were the young lady must have thought that Alan was the best ventriloquist she had ever encountered.

We were taken to a table in a little nook which was quite nice but whether that was because they were  treating us as special or hiding us away is open to conjecture. The meal was okay but the very expensive wine, in my opinion, was no better than the Liebfraumilch which is my favourite and costs less than £5 a bottle. The way we were served and the splendour of our surroundings was wonderful and even now I consider that the cost of the evening was well worth it (that may be a small exaggeration) but it really was an experience I’m glad we all had. Would I do it again sometime?  Definitely not, once was enough.

The bill was presented to me on a silver platter and I fished my wallet out, took out my card with a flourish, and laid it beside the bill. For several seconds (it seemed like an eternity) the waiter scrutinized the card and then pronounced as gently as he could “Im afraid we do not accept this card for payment sir”. I couldn’t believe it. They didn’t accept a Barclays Visa card!! What was I going to do? Beads of sweat started to appear on my forehead and panic was starting to set in. I’m not in the habit of carrying that sort of cash on me nor lining my pockets with gold ingots and I didn’t suppose Alan had left home laden with cash simply because he had a premonition that this scenario was going to happen. Why hadn’t I checked this when I made the booking? I took the card back wondering why my faithful old friend who has paid so many bills over the years had let me down. It was only then that I realised why. I had given the waiter the card that I use to get into the swimming pool section at the local fitness centre by mistake.

I started to laugh, although it was actually a mixture of hysteria and abating panic, and the waiter started to laugh also but whether it was  because he thought it was funny or because he was looking at the biggest plonker he had ever come across I’ll never know. The bill was finally paid and we left to return to the pub to have a drink that I had never needed so much before.

It was time to go home having had an evening none of us would ever forget for a variety of reasons. I couldn’t wait to get home if only to change my underpants.