Blown away in Bridlington

On Sunday we set off to Bridlington, mainly because K insisted that she had never been there. She had as a little girl, but had obviously forgotten it. She remembered the ‘big dipper’ road though from Reighton Sands holiday park, which dips and climbs with the result that as children they used to yell ‘Whoo’ at every dip the bus encountered. Setting off at Bridlington harbour, we walked along the sea front, intent on going as far as my legs would allow me to.

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Incident at the Happy Haddock.


Yesterday whilst out in town searching for summer tops, we needed somewhere to have our dinner. I haven’t frequented one of our fish and chip shops in town for ages, not since the terrible bout of food poisoning I suffered after one of our visits to one of them.  As we emerged across the road from the ‘Happy Haddock’ K persuaded me (as she always does) against my better judgement to have our dinner there.

On entering, there were in total about eight customers already eating their meals. We sat down at a table (plastic tablecloths, ugh!) and soon the waitress  appeared smiling from the ‘frying’ area of the establishment to take our order. Since the poisoning incident all those years ago, I have tended to hate the smell of frying oil and as the door between the ‘cooking area’ and the restaurant was kept permanently open, it wasn’t a comfortable time for me. I was already a ‘reluctant customer’ before the incident  began to be played out before our very eyes.

It began just as the waitress had brought my tea and K’s drink. She was beckoned over to one of the window tables by one of the  ladies sitting there.


“These chips are not cooked right!” stated the lady in an indignant voice to the waitress. “Look at the difference between my chips on my plate, and those chips on that ladies plate!” and she pointed over to  one of the ladies sat at the other window table. The waitress protested that they were exactly the same, and then taking the plate containing the offending chips, she marched into the cooking area. We could hear her inform the ‘boss’ about the said chips and the complaint by the lady customer.

Out came the ‘boss’ all six foot odd of him, and he proceeded to march up to the lady who had been served, according to her, the ‘different’ chips. He insisted they were exactly the same as any other plate of chips, freshly cooked as they were served, but she was having none of it.

“I can’t eat those!” she told him, and rose from the table to exit the premises.

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with your chips!” the boss insisted as he walked back to the frying area with the offending plate, “and don’t come back to this restaurant!”

This prompted one of the ladies at the next window table, who’s chips were obviously of a superior quality to the complaining ladies chips, to join in the fracas.

“How disgusting to say that to one of your customers, don’t come back!” she stated loudly so that we (and the boss of course) could all hear. “ I don’t believe it! As a  customer you have a right to complain if your not happy!”


Meanwhile the first complainant with the ‘different’ chips had paid for her meal alongside her companion, and muttering as she exited the door “Don’t worry I won’t be coming back here!” they both left. A few minutes went by in which K and I were served with our meals, and then the peace and quiet was interrupted again by the lady on the second table (who by the way K knew to speak to) who called the waitress over and told her that her chicken was ‘bloody’ and not cooked right.

The waitress did no more than marched into the frying area with the offending chicken on its plate to show the boss. He promptly marched straight back in with the aforementioned chicken and told the lady that it was cooked through, he had tested it, it wasn’t blood, it was the darker meat and quite normal. She however, was adamant .

“I can’t eat that!” she insisted, now obviously worked into some kind of hysterical frenzy about the cooking abilities of the ‘boss’ who seemed to have acquired ample certificates for his frying and cooking abilities which were all displayed  on the restaurant walls. She had obviously caught the ‘complaints’ bug from the previous occupant of the table next to her, and no amount of insisting that he was ‘Gordon Ramsey’ personified was going to placate this lady!


He went back into the ‘frying’ area but shortly returned, now really indignant himself. I was worried that he might slap her across the face with a wet fish, but luckily he had only returned as she scurried out the door to issue his ultimate sentence

“And don’t come back!” as she exited without paying for her meal.

All through the whole scenario played out before us, waitress and boss flying up and down the restaurant with complained about plates of food held aloft,  I have to admit that I nearly caught the bug as well. I was just a smidgen from picking up my bag and marching out of the restaurant in disgust, but the sight of K tucking into her huge sausages and chips with curry stopped me from taking flight, so we both stayed put and enjoyed our meals.


Shoes, Sharks and Stowell’s.

Our last day on holiday was to be K’s choice of venue. Sea Life at Scarborough. Again, another glorious sunny day despite the promise from the weather forecasters of rain later on. We caught the same bus outside the camp at 9.30am and arrived in Scarborough at roughly 9.45am.  A brisk walk down the busy shopping streets followed by the  steps down to the sea front. I did toy with the idea of catching one of the open topped tour buses to take us to Sea Life which is positioned right at the end of the North Bay, but as the weather was so warm I decided we would walk there. Big mistake!

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Soaking Sunday.

Braved the rain in the morning (had to, K was panicking about the food situation and the fact that she had nothing for packed lunch on Tuesday) so we set off during a slight lull in the downpour. Still ended up wet through though. After dinner, I caught up with the recordings I had made on my new PVR and generally slouched around the place.  As soon as we have packed the shopping away, K is back in her pyjamas before you can say ‘Jack Robinson’ so she was slouching around as well. In fact, she had a sleep after dinner. (Hmm. I must remember to get her thyroid checked at the doctors.) She does seem to do a lot of sleeping these days.

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Sunshine Saturday.

Despite the forecast of rain, we were very lucky on Saturday for our walk along the canal (again!) with C.R.E.W. I swear that I will soon know every blade of grass, every narrow boat, every duck and every fisherman’s name before much longer. Although it had been spitting as we exited the flat, it stayed dry all the walk and we actually kept seeing some sunshine breaking through. We were supposedly going to have dinner in the Black Horse, but K and I got our own way and we ended up in the Railway Inn at Mirfield. We love that pub for it was there where we were first introduced to Stowell’s White Zinfandel which has become our firm favourite. It beats any other make into fits in our opinion.

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Should I be worried?

Those of you who have followed my blogs elsewhere will no doubt be well aware that my daughter has one main interest that overrides anything else in her life.  Eating.  Practically the whole  of her conversation each day revolves around the subject of food.  I have come to believe that she only bothered to learn to write so that she could compose shopping lists consisting of nothing else but food for her to consume. At breakfast she discusses what she’s having for dinner. At dinnertime she talks about what she’s having for tea or even what she intends to have for her meals tomorrow.  And the day after.  As far as she is concerned, miss just one meal and you will keel over and die.

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The Strange case of the Black Toe.

I do hope that none of you are eating whilst reading this blog. If so, you had better not read the rest of it until you have finished and it has all been thoroughly digested. You see, it includes some horrible pictures of one of my feet. Yes, thankfully you don’t have to suffer the sight of both of them.  I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Besides which I would then loose the only two readers I have.  I can just imagine that you are all wondering why I am featuring some pictures of one of my feet?  Have I finally flipped? Did I drop my camera whilst snapping something fantastic and it took a snap of my foot as it fell to the floor? 

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Funerals,lilac and watches, oh my!

Been a funny sort of  day today. Not one of your ordinary days. K had a funeral to go to. She’s a born actress and so as soon as she was dressed from head to foot in black attire including a hat, her sober straight faced look was immediately evident. Hands clasped at the front of her black coat, she looked every inch the funeral director. See, she ‘gets’ into character depending on what she is taking part in. Yesterday she had art class. So she was dressed in a sort of huge baggy shirt depicting an artist. All she was missing was the black beret plonked on top of her head.

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