Saturday, 22 March 2008

Another Mancunian weekend (eee!) part 2

Saturday, 26 January 2008

On the Saturday I started with the hotel's aforementioned cold breakfast box, still in its Quite Fun Really phase. (To save you asking, Day 2 of this breakfast is known as Hmm I'm Less Delighted About This Than I Was, and, once the novelty has really quite thoroughly worn off, Day 3 is Help Help It's Destroying My Soul Aargh Avaunt Avaunt. Oddly, no record exists of anyone eating it for four or more days though scientists speculate that after a few weeks you might be zapped to the far side of the Strange Cold Breakfast Box Event Horizon, returning to Earth as an orbiting Star Baby accompanied by two flavours of Strauss and a dash of Ligeti. Those scientists, eh? Cuh. Tsk.

I zoomed over to see Becca and eventually we got going. Our first port of call was, er, "Rowland Avenue", a place that had been mooted for her to move to pending the fettling of her house situation. We had a look around and met some staff and residents. A detailed discussion of this place is way beyond the scope of this blog but suffice it to say that, while the people we met were very nice indeed, the place was pretty unsuitable and it was clearly going to be better for Becca to attempt to stay at the current nursing home. This was, however, a far from wasted trip since it had plenty of potential effects in the areas of showing willing, ticking boxes etc, in Becca's discussions with the local authority. There is a colossal difference between saying "I don't like the sound of Rowland Avenue" and "I didn't like Rowland Avenue and aha, yes, since you ask, I was there on Saturday morning having the tour and drinking coffee with its charming residents and staff so ner." Haha, social services, high ground taken and held, I think you'll find.

Quitting the delights of the pseudonymous Rowland Avenue we zipped light as a feather round to Becca's house. We managed to get her in (gnah! wagghh! ungghh!!) but, goodness me, I wouldn't want to do that too often. Can you say Privatized Hernia Repair Clinic? Quite so. To put it another way, I've recently been reading, in Anthony Beevor's Berlin book, how Red Army troops, on entering that city, would sometimes progress through terraced buildings sideways, rather than using the more conventional but sniper-risky route along the street outside. This was facilitated by the use of a Panzerfaust whose previous owners had effectively renounced their title to it. I had better say little more on this topic except to point out that, if I'd had one, I would of course have delayed pulling the trigger for long enough to check that the cats were out of the living room.

Anyway, access ishoos apart, we had a very nice visit to Bec's house and the pussy cats were touchingly pleased to see her. We footled around there for quite a while then went and had (rather late) lunch at Solomon Grundy's, one of Becca's two favourite Withington lunch venues. I can see why as it has nice food, lovely staff, and is pretty accessible, though you could improve its front door access amazingly much with an amazingly small quantity of sand and cement and a nice shiny trowel. Nevertheless this was a very fine lunch whose memory I shall cherish.

That was pretty much it for Saturday's gadding about. We went back to the nursing home, hereinafter perhaps the Eagle's Eyrie as that's not its name, dropped Bec, did restorative two-site kipping, and met later for Snacks-n-Telly™, the leisure activity de choix for the sophisticated Norf London family. When I left for the hotel Becca very kindly lent me her slinky dinky new megaportable DVD player, a most appealing bit of kit, and the DVD of Bridge to Teribithea. Vogel's Film Jury™ is still out on this one but I think it was a bit of a disappointment, though maybe it would've got a fairer hearing had I been less exhausted when watching it. I might give it another go before risking bankrupting the distributors with my cruel criticisms. And so; bed; clunk; zzzzz.

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