Okay, we know we say not to mention the cricket in your match reports, but can there at least be some cricket that you avoid mentioning from now on? We’re including this one because it’s largely about food and because it contains some happy news and some good advice. Try and make a cricket reference in your comments maybe.
As it was only two days before the wedding we decided on a quiet night out at Jamie’s Italian in Guildford with my best friends, Sarah and Robin, their mums and my future mother-in-law, Wendy. I’d never been to this branch before, but as a lover of the antipasti platter of meats and cheeses thought it was a safe bet. Anything associated with the Naked Chef holds some considerable prestige in Perth where my mother-in-law lives, so I also hoped to gain some pre-wedding Brownie points. She was suitably impressed.
On the whole the food was jolly tasty, although I immediately regretted ordering the Fritto Misto and suffered considerable food envy when Wendy’s choice of lamb chops arrived. This taught me the invaluable life lesson that you should always go for the meat option rather than the deep fried mystery assortment of seafood. Mother-in-laws are wise and wily creatures.
We were quite disappointed that Jamie himself wasn’t there to cook for us, but our South African waiter Alasdair did arrange for me to get a massive tin of chopped tomatoes signed by Gareth who was working in the kitchen that night. I imagine that one day when Gareth is a famous TV personality this tin will be worth some considerable sum of money.
Later in the meal Sarah thought she had recognised our old primary school deputy head sitting nearby so she marched over there to reacquaint herself with Mrs Davies. Robin and I felt really sorry for the woman who was clearly out enjoying a quiet meal with her husband. Nonetheless we soon also marched over and cajoled her into posing for photos with us to celebrate this amusing coincidence. I’m also a primary school teacher and will no doubt be equally charming when three Pinot Grigio-swigging women come to ruin my nights out in twenty years’ time.
At the end of the evening Wendy wanted us to go to a late night bar so we could wait for the Australian, his father and best man, Shane, to return from Vauxhall. They missed their train so we left without them.
At about one o’clock in the morning the Australian rocked up proudly sporting his Virgin man-bag that he had been given by a part-time-model masquerading as an air hostess. He was also clutching a can of Fosters and was wearing the child-size cap that came in the man-bag. He looked ridiculous.