Feeling booze-weary. Wine-filled wedding reception followed by a day knocking back cider with old school chums. Past hour spent staring at documentary about Nazi hunters while eating sweaty mini eggs. Brain hurts and the remote control is missing.
Met up with Jem, KLF and her husband in Cockermouth. The Main Street, which was under 8ft of water in November, is still drying out, but lucky for us the Bitter End pub managed to escape unharmed.
It looked different from my last visit - more gastropub than traditional drinking hole. All the tables were reserved but the kindly barwoman let the five of us have a small circular table for an hour. It was cosy. We placed our order quickly (apart from difficult me who needed to enlighten the waiter about coeliacs and then speak to the chef about gluten-free dishes).
The food arrived. It was incredible. Historic. My pork and tiger prawns with sauteed potatoes and apple puree looked and smelled sensational. We crammed all five plates onto the tiny table, along with the veg side dishes, five pints and the salt and pepper. Keeping in the gastropub style, the plates were huge, with the food thoughtfully arranged in the centre.
I picked up my knife and fork and tucked in. Except I did not realise how close to the edge of the table my plate was. I could hardly see the table. And the plate toppled onto my lap, slopping food down my top and across the floor. Every last tender morsel.
I blame London for this. If it wasn't for its fancy la-dee-dah influence, I would have had a normal plate, not one the size of a steering wheel. And I wouldn't have ended up dusting off medallions of pork and eating a beautiful meal off the floor.
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