April 12th(Sat)

Time to make the long trawl north. And, no that's not to Blackpool. I have recruited two volunteers, that is to say Dan and Emsy, to spend the weekend in helpringham with me. They actually don't take a great deal of persuading, which is nice to see. Their grandparents love them a lot, and it's nice to see this reciprocated, even if, at this stage of their lives theyare less keen to articulate such feelings than they once were.

The A1/ A1(M) has to be one of the dreariest roads in Europe. It plows a furrow through a swathe of uniquely uninteresting Eastern England. There's scarcely a hill to speak of, hardly a wood to break the monotony, simply a sad collection of nondescript house and roadside facilities. Highlights: a carpark full of motor caravans, a garden centre, and oddly,the "Adult Pitstop", a sex shop in the middle of nowhere set back from the side of the road, presumably for those who can't mke it from London to Newcastle without a wank at the half way point.
The collection of "Little Chefs" which once punctuated the boredom are now sadly defunct and have either been bulldozed or left to wither in keeping with the scrub like vegetation from which they once borrowed their plot.
It's not possible to make decent progress either. The speed limit goes up and down like awhore's drawers twixt 50, 60 and 70, with a ready supply of cameras to back them up, and every time some momentum is achieved there is a roundabout to undo any good work done.
Needless tosay we have to have one scheduled stop for the kids to ram poisonous pizzas and foul fried chicken into their gullets.
H has blown the intended surprise, so we arrive expected, though early enough to shock the parents/ grandparents. There is very little to do here, so we mooch around the house, watch a few home vids of the kids. In the evening we head out to eat in the Italian restaurant in Sleaford. We've been before and I am not expecting great things. In this respect no one is dissapointed.
It's sadly lacking in atmosphere. I mean it's not hard to create a trattoria feel to a place. Even a token effort of a few plastic vines antd a couple of raffia swathed bottles of chianti would help, but here there is nothing. It is sparse, and two little round tables shoved together do not make for a great conversational opportunities. Noise blasting from the sound system (mainly chart stuff but with the ocassional ethnic nod in the form of a few isolated O Sole Mio type numbers chucked in at random) is the attempt to create ambience.
There's a wonderfully Fawltyesque beginning as Dad tries to order a Bacardi and Ginger from a waiter who's command of English would make Mannuel sound like Churchill beside him. "Bacardi, Yesssir
"And Dry Ginger please"
"What is?"
"Ginger Ale?"
"Yes Baccardi"
"With Ginger Ale"
He looks forlorn. There's onlyoneway out. He smiles sadly
"No"
"A Bristol cream then please"
The hapless waiter shakes his head. After five more minutes of this routine they give up and decide to go drinkless. I simplify matters by ordering a beer. His face brightens markedly.
A couple of tatty laminated yellow menus are dished out, and then the piece de resistance!
Today's "specials" are announced, scribbled on the back of two old bills, one of which is so faint it can'tbe read at all. There's nothing special to talk of, and I plump for a veal Marsalla. The kids order garlic bread to start with, which actually turn out to be medium sized pizzas. Shame for Emsy, who has ordered pizza for main course!
My anitpasta looks as though it was bought from Tesco this morning. The main is swimming in source which is sickly sweet, but vast in proportion. The folks order steak Diane and are presented with half a cow apiece. Truly intimidating portions, and they can only eat half of them.
After the meal the waiters become more friendly and start offering around free digestifs, which go down well, especially the Sanbucca. It's not a disastrous evening, but it's generally agreed the curry house next door is a better option. There is a lamentable lack of good eating houses in Sleaford.
I go round to the Nags after handing over 30 bloody quid for a 7 mile each way taxi trip, and chat driving instruction with Paul. It is good to dio, and I feel less in awe of him theses days, though with six years at it and a grade six under his belt, he's still worth listening to.
Have three pints there, and on top of all the Sanbucca it's too many, and I am out like a light as soon as home.