I’ve finally done it! I’ve been chucked out of a pub. Why, you will wonder. Was I dancing on tables or singing raucous Scottish songs in a corner? No, nothing so exciting. After waiting over 45 minutes for our lunch order, which had been lost somehow, I was confident that the food would arrive not properly prepared. And I was right. Husband’s fish was warm not hot, my mushrooms were almost raw and the chips – large slabs of pale, unappetising potato. We complained to the bar maid, who said she would pass it on to the landlady.
Not having a cruel nature, I will refrain from any physical description of this landlady who turned up at our table. Her explanation that there was only one chef in the kitchen – not our problem – and that when all the orders came at once, this caused difficulty, differed from her staff’s. The pub was not busy. But it was when husband spoke disparagingly of the chips, which we had not eaten, that she really flipped. Grabbing our unfinished drinks, she ordered us out of “her” pub, describing husband as a very rude young man. I think she must have been suffering from landlord’s disease because husband will reach his three score years and ten in September, albeit unreconstructed three score and ten as he himself says quite proudly.
Was I right to follow her back into the pub demanding a refund for our confiscated drinks? It didn’t seem to soothe her any and we were once again ordered to leave. Ah well, life’s rich tapestry …
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