|
xriva
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Kevin
Country: United States
State: Texas
Metro: Dallas
Birthday: 4/16/1960
Gender: Male
Interests: I like computers, reading, Celtic Rock, blues and bowling. I write very bad poetry, but luckily no prose. I think in bullet points, an injury sustained by years of PowerPoint presentations. I played fantasy football until I sprained my fantasy knee. I have five dogs in my house, but I'm not as interested in them as they are in when I am going to open the cookie jar.
Expertise: I speak Java. Don't you? I can perform weddings, but it's really just a hobby, not a profession. I am an old fart, so I can tell you youngsters why all the decisions you are making are wrong. Just ask me!
Occupation: Computer related
Industry: Computers (Software)
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  DallasKJG
Yahoo:  kjg
MSN: DallasKJG
Member Since:
2/12/2005
 Premium
|
| Sites Of Interest |
|---|
Donate to Sparky's Pals
Sites to Visit
 |
|
| This story is called "Cocktail Sauce." If it were called "Cranberry Sauce", it would be part of a Beatles song, but it's not, so it's just a rather bizarre story.
The Spousal Unit and I had seafood this evening for dinner, and part of it was boiled shrimp, so she asked me to get some cocktail sauce for her. I never think about cocktail sauce, because I don't use it. So, as I needed more tea anyway, I went to the counter and asked for tea (extra ice) and after that, I asked for cocktail sauce.
They don't have any. I thought this was really strange for a seafood restaurant, but the woman at the counter said to go over by the utensils and read the sign.
I wondered if the sign would be as in Chef! and said "You Ignorant Peasant! This food is Perfect and needs no sauce", but this is a hole in the wall place, so that seemed a bit unlikely.
Sure enough, by the forks and spoons (but not the napkins, as there are paper towels on the table), there was a small sign. On the sign were the (very) basic instructions to make cocktail sauce. According to the sign, it's ketchup, fresh squeezed lemon juice, Worcester sauce and horseradish "to taste". So, I got a small cup from in front of the ketchup pump, filled it 2/3rds with ketchup, got a lemon wedge from the bowl by the sugar and sweetener, squeezed it in, added a touch of hot sauce since I didn't see any Worcester sauce (it's the same thing, really), and put in a wee bit of horseradish from a rather imposing container with a spoon too large to administer a small dosage.
I took it back to the table, stirred it up, found out there was Worcester sauce on the table, added a few drops, restirred, and pronounced it "good." (I may not have mentioned the hot sauce when I delivered it to the Spousal Unit at the table, but this is Texas, so you can put hot sauce in anything.)
The Spousal Unit did not complain. In fact, she said it was "good" and not "it's fine" which is her code for "crap." So, now I know how to make cocktail sauce. However, I'm not sure where that goes on a resume.
So, flush with victory, I actually started thinking about this, which is never a good idea. That's why now I actually have a couple of notes on this rather quirky practice.
There is no ratios or amounts given on the sign, just the ingredient list.
Luckily, I've been living surrounded by an Italian family for almost ten years, and that's often standard practice. The usual amount of any ingredient in a recipe that is explained to me is "enough", as in:
Sweetie, how much garlic do you put in your pasta sauce? "Enough."
Side-note: Why are recipes explained to me? Because very few of them are written down, they're handed down (by making you cook them as Mom watches and "critiques".) If one of the children does finally write it down, the other children immediately say it's all wrong, and nobody would make it that way, especially Mom. So, there are few Italian cookbooks that an actual Italian would claim are correct.
So, that wasn't a problem for me, but for any people without benefit of cooking from a recipe that is pretty vague, it could be more of a challenge.
Additional side-note: This is why the Spousal Unit (and siblings) could never run a restaurant. While they all produce good food in bulk on a regular basis, it's never exactly the same twice, which tends to drive sous-chefs insane. Also, what new chef wants to see a recipe that just says "Enough" by all the ingredients?
Why would a seafood restaurant have the basic ingredients for cocktail sauce, but not the actual sauce?
My first theory was that (obviously) they buy the raw ingredients for other things in bulk, so it's easier to just have people mix their own.
Ketchup? It's needed for the French Fries that come with all the fried platters. Some people would put it on the fried fish, as well (ignorant peasants.) The Spousal Unit might put it in tea, as she really likes ketchup.
Lemon? It's needed for the fish and seafood and (of course) for adding to iced tea. If you're a Yuppie, you would also squeeze it in your water, because you're now out of work and can't afford to just buy a bloody drink.
Worcester Sauce? Hmm. I'll get back to you on this one. I'm not sure they have steak on the menu, although it is a restaurant in Texas, so they could probably produce one on demand.
Horseradish? OK, I didn't think you used this on anything besides prime rib. Maybe the steak they're hiding in the back is really prime rib.
So, my new theory is that people always bitch about the cocktail sauce no matter what brand they use, so it's easier to just put the ingredients out and tell people to "roll their own."
Next time, I think I'll ask them, as it should be an interesting story. In the meantime, if you need to know how to make cocktail sauce, I can tell you. You just need enough of all the ingredients and then you stir.
| | |
| February 3, 1959 was The Day The Music Died. June 25, 2009 was The Day The Freak Show Closed Its Tent.
If I hear "icon" one more time, I'm going to puke. I finally looked it up, and as I don't think many people double-click on a celebrity, I assume they mean "an object of uncritical devotion" when referring to Michael Jackson. I think this is actually a valid usage, since even as he was on trial for child molestation, there were idiots crying for him outside the courthouse.
For the record, I'm am one of the approximately sixteen people left in the world who doesn't own a copy of "Thriller." (If you look at the sales numbers, there must be people that own the CD and don't own a CD player or have access to electricity.) I hated the song and I hated the video.
There are so many issues with MJ that I have a hard time trying to get my head around all of them. Does your professional body of work excuse your personal behavior? Is popular the same as good? Is just singing a song as important as writing the lyrics and music, arranging it, and actually playing the instruments?
Jackson was one of Generation X's "tortured artists", although many of them would probably rather claim Kurt Cobain, who was much cooler (Actually, I hated Nirvana, as well.) I really don't consider Jackson of my time (he was a year and a half older than I) because I was listening to actual music by the time he started recording,and his target was teenagers (as most pop music seems to be.)
If you produce two good albums in a three year period (one the best-selling album of all time as we're constantly reminded this week), followed by a lesser one five years later, does that excuse you from multiple charges of child indecency? Personally, I don't think so. (Apparently, it does give you enough money to make some of the charges go away.) Child molestation is not justified by making a bunch of half-drunk white kids dance.
(I have to base my ratings on the reviews, since I don't think I've ever heard more than the singles from "Off The Wall", "Thriller" and "Bad." MTV over-played the videos so much, I hated most of the songs before I really had any time to form an opinion. I did think Weird Al's versions were funny, but once or twice.)
What makes you a recording artist? How much do you have to do? Jackson wrote or co-wrote three of ten songs on "Off the Wall", four of nine on "Thriller" and nine of eleven on "Bad." Which one had the lowest sales? The one where he wrote the majority of the songs. It could be a coincidence, since it's very difficult to top a massive album, but I find it interesting.
So, for all those people who thought he wrote great albums, notsomuch.
For all the people that thought he was a great musician, look at the album credits. He is usually credited with vocals and some sort of percussion. Not much instrumental contribution. (This would prove useful later, since it's hard to play an instrument while running around a stage, groping yourself.)
Basically, he was a singer. He was a very popular singer, to be sure, but if you think someone can run around a stage and still sing breathlessly, you're delusional. So, he sang on albums. Other people played the music, Quincy Jones produced it. Most of the time, other people wrote the lyrics and music.
So, for all the people that think MJ was the equivalent of the Beatles, think more "Frank Sinatra." They had the same roles on the records. Now, go tell a bunch of people that someone who sold a boatload of records in the 1980s is as important as Sinatra. You might want to do this from a distance.
It's revealing to look at the credits on his albums (visit www.allmusic.com, for example.) It took an army to produce those albums. Contrast this with, say, the Beatles, who would have their producer play keyboards or add a string quartet or Eric Clapton from time to time, but otherwise it was just them. They wrote it, they arranged it, they played it, they produced it.
Sales do not equal talent.
What were his contributions to culture? So many people seem to be praising him for his contributions now that he's gone.
- He showed black people could make videos that MTV could safely play. I am not alone in thinking that MTV helped destroy music (ironic, since it's sister VH1 is constantly trying to save it), so this is a dubious accomplishment, at best.
- He showed white people would listen to black singers. (Wait. B. B. King? Nat King Cole? Everyone else on Motown?)
- He made it permissible to grrab one's crotch in public without being an athelete that just took on in the 'nads. Did we really need this to advance our culture?
- He made the video and the stage show more important than the song. (See "destroying music" above.)
- He sold a hundred million copies of a single album (more or less, depending on source.) This is a business accomplishment. (If sales are a cultural accomplishment, thank you, Peter Frampton, for making double-live albums possible.)
I don't think "popular" is the same as "good." A lot of people drink to excess, so that's popular, but it's not good. People smoke, and that's not good. People will watch wrestling, but not Masterpiece Theatre. Romance novels outsell most literature. This does not give value to any of these, except in the eye of the producers and publishers.
I can't miss Michael Jackson because he hasn't done anything that actually reached me, other than saturating the airwaves during his various surgeries and trials and again at his death. His music just didn't appeal to me. Apparently, it did to millions, and that's fine, but "Thriller" was a long time ago.
If you have a "tortured artist" whose last really successful album was in 1982, why do so many people still care today? A quarter of a century is a long time between hits. In the meantime, his personal life and travails are what have kept him in the spotlight. I'm not sure I would want to be listed in history as "famous freak/occasional performer/sometime recording artist."
My sympathies to his family, since the loss of one dimishes many. (My sympathies also to the families of all those who died anonymously in the past few days.) My condolences to his accountants who have to figure out if the portion of the rights to the Beatles catalog he still controlled can cover his debt load when liquified. My congratulations to the psychologist who gets to treat his kids, because that should be a lucrative account.
Can we talk about real news now?
| | |
| I wasted as much time as I could in the hotel but finally had to head to Heathrow. I counted £20 in change to exchange at the front desk for bills ("unchange" in the Urban Dictionary - accepted for publication last night.) Desk clerk just applied it to my bill. Brilliant.
Taxi ride was five minutes, eight pounds and worth it. Driver refused my tattered £20 note that has been in my wallet for ten years or so. He told me to change it at the bank.
Managed to hit a lull at all the lines at the airport which is a bit miraculous. I would rather have the miracle of an upgrade, but there's still time. Was one pound something over in suitcase weight (damn you, extra PC and topcoat) but was let off with a warning. New security question: "Have you had a laptop or any electronics repaired while you were here?" Is there a master list of repair shops likely to put bombs in broken electronics? If you have a receipt from "All honors to Allah" Electronics Repair, do they confiscate your laptop?
Made it through boarding pass checkpoint and prepared for the X-Ray walk of potential exposure. Security did not make me remove my belt (whew!) or shoes. Sailed through. Passport Control found the stamp from Sunday and decided to let me leave. Next was shoe security - your shoes are scanned while you walk by with your carry-ons. I wonder if the Shoe Bomber is pleased with all the stupid security procedures he caused.
Considered a day pass to the Admirals Club since I had two hours to kill but decided I couldn't drink or steal enough bitter lemon to make it worthwhile.
There is a Krispy Kreme in the terminal. My head almost exploded.
Decided to get lunch at the fake Irish pub. Cappuccino was very good. Ham and cheese sandwich was a panini, like yesterday, but an Irish panini rather than British. Chips were really good, but The Chequers chips are still the best. When you want it done right, go to the pub. Eight pounds, which was not bad for airport food. It all seemed cheaper this trip.
Decision point: More cappuccino? I could see how high my heart rate would go. Last pint? Alcohol before a flight, yadda yadda yadda. Go to Harrods? Wandered through on the way to the pub, nothing jumped out at me except really high points food. So it goes. I guess I should buy duty-free booze on principle. I may try to find a book. I may even go to Krispy Kreme. Who am I kidding? One last pint, it is.
The barmaid just winked at me when I approached the bar. Now, that's what I expect in a pub. Maybe she should give "Ashwin" customer service lessons. Maybe the Irish are just more friendly.
Gave her the ancient £20 note for a pint of Guinness. She accepted it happily and gave me an ever more tattered £5 in change. She then asked for it back and gave me a newer one. I need to start mystery shopping pubs. It's where customer service excels.
Forty-five minutes or so until gate assignment. Time to wander, although I will miss the barmaid of the year.
Forty minutes and £70 cash. If I had ovaries, this wouldn't even be a challenge.
Harrods knick-knacks purchased. Decided against trying to find toast to sample marmalade. Would probably be overkill to spread marmalade on a Krispy Kreme.
Waiting for a gate assignment - an interesting concept. You can't just get to the airport early and crash at the gate because they don't tell you which gate it is until an hour or so before takeoff. It's the gate where the plane from DFW landed this morning.
Gate is now "Please wait" which is a bit ominous. The plane should be here - it arrived this morning as the matching flight inbound.
Switching back to Dallas time on PDA. It's now 7am. Suddenly sleepy.
Gate 36. Time to go.
Find sign for gates 23-50. Staring down hallway to infinity. Sudden flashback to long walk in from gate on Sunday. Starting to regret heavier purchases.
Old fart reunion in front of me. Old guy describing plane seating layout and facilities, then realized he was remembering a Continental 777 and we're on an American 767. Thanks for the loud, booming lesson anyway, plane expert. Beginning to think this is an AARP package tour flight. I may need to put the iPod on in self-defense. Blue hairs now discussing coffee drinks. Apparently, cappuccino is bad.
Next year, this could be me. Cyanide, anyone?
Older guy is getting frisked by security. Hopefully, not a Viagra commercial.
Kids and grandkids inventory discussion commences. Where is the plane expert when you need him?
Holy crap, this is a small seat. It feels like an MD-80 seat from the "pack 'em in" era. On the bright side, there isn't much of a view, although I can see business class. If you ever meet someone from the IBM internal finance team, kill him. As usual, I think I got the upgrade on the wrong leg of the trip.
Managed to use the toilet while the AARP brigade was still tramping onboard. That will save one trip climbing over whomever is next to me.
Seatmate seems reasonable and about twenty-five years below the average age in the gate area. This is a blessing. Younger guys don't talk about their grandkids. Break out the iPods and let's get out of here.
I miss the 777 that brought me over. This plane blows chunks.
Powering down for takeoff. The next time we land, I can turn the phone on again.
8:52am Dallas time - takeoff, twenty-two minutes late. After initial climb completed, flight attendants played security video. Oops.
A brief prayer of thanks - just prior to taxi, a flight attendant told me seatmate there were open seats. He left and never came back. Now, I have room to spread out. Thank you, Lord. It's not business class, but I will gladly accept it.
Crew is very chatty, but only among themselves. Wondering how much we will see them in the next nine hours.
My next steps will be in America. My phone will work and some people will speak with a drawl. Plus, it's the start of the weekend.
Stroganoff or tortellini? Gas chamber or firing squad?
Delta gives you one free drink with dinner. American, notsomuch.
The stroganoff was not bad. Even if it had been, it wasn't that much. On the plus side, the sauce blended well into my shirt.
You know you have left Europe when asking for coffee just instantly gets you a cup of brown liquid instead of "Cappuccino? Espresso?"
Idly wondering (again) what would happen if I started singing along with my iPod. As Oasis is playing rather currently, given my fellow passengers' probably loud protests. Maybe if I had champagne music instead of Champagne Supernova. I always thought an interesting music video premise would be some poor bastard in coach starting to sing a song, randomly people join in, and then they find the band is in First Class, with their instruments. Just a thought. ("Don't Look Back In Anger" is playing, and that's a bizarre but guaranteed audience participation song for Oasi , so I just had a vision of someone in the back of the plane starting with the chorus, only to have Noel Gallagher wander back with his drink to pick up at the start of the verse. Of course, the flight attendants would probably just chase him back to his ticketed cabin.)
Wouldn't it be interesting if your iPod could tell you if anyone else on the plane was listening to the same music? You could find a kindred spirit.
Dear Noel Gallagher - What is a freakin' Wonderwall, anyway?
Seven and a half hours (or therabouts) to go. It may be time for some sleep, although I am a bit afraid of what I may dream.
Not even Oasis can drown out the toilet flushing right behind your seat.
Listened to Bob Newhart, Jay Mohr and Gordon Ramsety read their books; so not much sleep.
Turning off electronics. I'm home.
INS needs more people – six lines for 280+ people coming in is not enough. Luggage was actually coming off the carousel as we arrived from passport control. Limo driver was actually in the lobby with a sign.
Half-hour down LBJ and Central, and I'm home.
| | |
| I went down to the hotel bar for a quick adult beverage and to see if my colleague had returned from the city yet. He had not, but I had a most amusing time.
First of all, if Ashwin Kumar had ever just opened a bar instead of letting his son run a TV show, I've found the bar. (If you've never seen The Kumars at No. 42, you owe yourself.) He would almost be Basil Fawlty on an incompetence scale, but he is exceedingly polite, as most Indians I have met are (a positive stereotype for a people scarred by doing too much remote tech support.) The head bartender (and I believe bar manager) is a completely overworked, almost elegant Indian gentleman trying to keep order, instruct the (incompetent in his eyes) staff and serve drinks to his customers, and between his running around and the customers either confused, annoyed or bemused by the service (depending on the number of drinks they've consumed), it is quite a show.
One gentleman ordered two pints to go before paying his tab and mentioned that the beer was preventing him from killing someone. I didn't think the service was quite that bad, but we all have our tolerance levels. This gentleman is also dear to me because he had a sneezing fit that was comperable to (if not greater than) one of mine, and he said "I must be allergic to beer." (I would never think such a thing. I would blame it on the glass.) I told him he needed to drink faster or slower, but I wasn't sure which. He said faster was always better, so I deferred to experience. I also told him if the top of a beer made him sneeze, he should just send it back and start over.
I ordered a Scotch and Coke, because the Beatles used to drink it a lot (according to many quotes in various books), and I've simply never had the nerve to order it in the States because the bartenders there generally know me, and they don't like ruining good Scotch. I told "Ashwin" to use the house Scotch so nothing of much value would be harmed. (It was Bell's, which is probably just above rotgut.) Scotch and Coke with cheap Scotch and Pepsi (curse hotel tie-ups with the wrong brand) is actually not bad. The Coke (Pepsi) takes the edge off the Scotch, so if you don't like Scotch, it would probably make it palatable. It's not like Boone Farms wine, and it shouldn't have an umbrella, but if you don't like the taste of Scotch, this would help. Personally, I like Scotch, so while it was an amusing little drink, it's not going to make my usual rotation. "Ashwin" asked if I was going to pay cash or charge it to my room. I said "room", he rang it up, I said "Can you just keep it open?" and he said "No, your room number goes there, and sign it please." So I did.
I ordered a refill (eventually.) Same procedure. That's when I began to notice everyone around me was running a tab. Considering I've had bartenders start tabs for me when I walk in off the street into a bar I've never visited (even when the locals have to pay cash per round), I found this strange. Bartenders usually look at me and think "He's good for it and he's going to need more than one." So it goes. Maybe "keep it open" is not English, but American.
After that, I decided to apologize to the gods of single malt, so I ordered Glenfiddich, one of the few single malt Scotch whiskies I can pronounce sober. (Did I do that joke already?)
Actually, I decided to see how long it would take to have him ask me if I wanted another drink. After serving at least four people and having a discussion with one about how to mix his tomato juice (the guy also asked for his bill, but that part was missed), and then spending five minutes actually mixing the tomato juice (with a splash of Tobasco and something from the seltzer gun), he finally asked if I would like something else. That's when I asked for Glenfiddich. They were out. Well, he couldn't find the bottle, so he announced they were out. There were two different vintages of Glenfiddich on the menu, so that's out of a lot. I asked what single malts they had and when he got to Laphroaig, I said that was fine. I said "straight up, with just a couple of rocks." To my horror, he put Coke in it. So, I sent it back. He looked pained as seven pounds fifty went down the drain, but nobody said anything about Coke. I had planned to tell him I was done with kids' drinks and wanted a real one, but I didn't think he would necessarily understand. Maybe that would have helped. Coke and single malt? Shudder.
After that drink order, I was awarded a small bowl of crisps. They were a bit stale, but it's the thought that counts. I've been in this bar every night since I've been here, and he's the only one who's ever gotten me a drink, so I really thought I would be a regular by now.
I may have to go back later this evening, since one of the goals was to meet my colleague, since I left him in the city hours ago and he does like a Scotch to finish the evening. I would really like to know if he gets less manic as the place clears out (I doubt it.) I would also like to know if I go and say "I'd like to run a tab" first, if that would help. I've been tipping them on each round, and that didn't seem normal with the crankier customers that were leaving. One of the other staff told me they're open until 1am. I don't have a plane until 2:30pm tomorrow afternoon. This could be a fun night. (Note to Spousal Unit: it's called research.)
| | |
| The Holiday Inn has no soap in the bath. It has a squeeze bottle of hand soap by the sink and a squeeze bottle of shampoo in the shower (both wall-mounted) but I really don't think you're supposed to carry a handful of soap into the shower with you and I hope you're not supposed to drip across the bathroom to get soap in the middle of your shower. I just used shampoo for soap, since I have normal hair pretty much everywhere.
Feet still throbbing. Changed shoes. Now ready for the last day of the UK tour, as feet are throbbing in different way than previously. I am beginning to see why one musician said he isn't paid to perform, he's paid to travel.
We're going into the city, method unknown at this point. Taxi, Tube or Train + Tube are all options - and all have their good and bad points. I will have no opinion - I'm not falling for that again.
8:48am. Taking the tube. Train arriving in six minutes and only 19 stops to go.
Have a Zone 2-6 ticket, per colleague. Going to Zone 1. Exiting the station may be interesting. I was trying to get a Zone 1-6 ticket when he told me what he had. Figured we should argue with the transit police together.
9:23am. We're at Barons Court, still in the 'burbs, basically. Colleague on the phone - sounds like we may be late. Train is going underground, so it was a short call.
9:52am. Waiting outside Waterloo for our host. That was actually a quicker trip than I thought.
Turnstiles at Waterloo locked on my colleague's tube pass. "Seek Assistance." Bored guard let us through. It looked like she was considering explaining that we had the wrong pass, and decided against the bother.
Made the meeting on time. An hour-long discussion - I think it went well.
Had a ham, cheese and tomato panini, a bag of cheese and onion crisps and a metric Dr Pepper for lunch in the IBM cafeteria - in other words, a traditional British lunch. Added a Mars bar since sweets seem to be mandatory.
The IBM South Bank cafeteria doesn't take cash, only smartcards (or IBM badges.) We had to each get a temp badge to buy lunch. We also have to remember to cash it back in before we leave - or have to eat more since there is still money on the card. Wondering if IBM thinks many guests will forfeit the £2 deposit to keep such a magical card as a souvenir. Me? Notsomuch. (IBM Hursley had them at one point, but on my next trip were taking cash, as well. It's great if you have a badge, but a pain otherwise. My US badge didn't work in Hursley, so I had to get a temp card, anyway.)
Some of the trash bins are color-coded. This is very useful unless you don't know the code (or are color-blind, I suppose.) Left all my crap on the tray - let the professionals sort it out. (I was not alone in this.)
The smartcard machine only takes bills, but it only returns coins. Fifteen pounds in coins can be heavy.
One more meeting to go. Pre-meeting at 1pm, real meeting at 2pm. This was a long way to travel for an hour to ninety minutes each.
Never try to help two salespeople meet. It is more effort than you would expect, since neither is on time or paying attention. Stick to herding cats.
Meeting was actually at 2:30pm. Very interesting customer. I think we were learning from him.
Done with meetings - off for my own personal adventures in London. I managed to find Porter's English Restaurant by going to Covent Garden on the tube and walking in larger circles until I saw the TGI Fridays, which is hideous but right down the street from Porter's. (When traveling, I always think I should just stand outside random TGI Fridays and Starbucks and apologize to any natives that go by.) I get lost so often trying to find the same places, that I have landmarks.
I was going to go back to the hotel and change, but decided I didn't have that much time to waste. Besides, rush hour was starting and I would have been standing most of the way. Best to have a couple of pints down first to prepare.
Just hit with an amazing feeling of relief that the week is done. It may have been the bitter. (Note to Spousal Unit: you are no longer the only one who can drive me to drink.)
Steak and Cheddar pie with chips. Tremendous. Porter's has amazing puff pastry for their pies. However, chips of the week goes to The Chequers whose chips tasted like battered mashed potatoes. Double-amazing.
So, I started the week with haggis, and ended with Spotted Dick. I noticed that pie, pudding, cappuccino and a bottle of bitter I ordered was four pounds cheaper ala carte than the fixed-price pie, pudding, coffee and half-bottle of wine.
Suddenly wondering if I can find a cricket bat.
Two words I never thought thought I'd say to a taxi driver (or anyone) without the Spousal Unit in tow: "Harrods, please." Where else would you go for a cricket bat on a Thursday evening? Harrods not only had cricket bats, they also had green Harrods bags shaped like a cricket bat to carry it home. (Note to Spousal Unit: I did not choose the £189 professional model.)
Harrods can also charge you in US dollars so they can give you a bad exchange rate instead of having to wait for the bank to give you a bad rate. (They also had a £12,000 foosball table but that made my head hurt.)
Now, back to the hotel to see if it fits in my suitcase, since cricket bats are on the "specifically forbidden carry-on items" list. How many cricket bats are being carried around the US, anyway?
An older couple standing by me on the train is getting frisky. Smooch, smooch. Ick. If a couple publicly kissing is younger than I, I think "Get a room!" If they're older, I think "Viagra commercial?"
I took the infamous bus from Heathrow to the hotel - and found the proper stop, just outside the airport. It's not a short walk, but it's shorter than yesterday's.
The cricket bat fits in my suitcase. Hurrah! Thank you, Harrods!
Someone from the hotel read this before it was published, because there is now a bar of soap in my bathroom.
It's time to go home.
| | |
|
|
Use "Sparkys Pals" as your choice!
