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We just about got everything we needed in the car (though I was still annoyed, because it would be a shame to let something like this go and live a happy life. I mean what kind of blogs would that bring you?)
The drive was pretty easy though, but I did get tired so was glad we were both on the insurance and Catie took over for the second half.
We’ve rented a cottage in a little village by the sea and it turned out to be right on the harbour, overlooking some old-fashioned sailing ships, like we’d gone on holiday to the past, like some kind of Gary Sparrow/bloke in that thing about trying to stop Kennedy being killed (same show). They do things differently here.
You can never quite tell when you book somewhere on line without seeing it first (my last flat at the Edinburgh Fringe looked OK from the pictures for example), but this is a lovely place and the people renting us had left out some nice bread and biscuit and stuff for the baby. Phoebe stayed calm during the long journey and was excited to be somewhere new. We had had such a stressful time that weekend we’d gone away to the spa, so thought this adventurous trip might be similarly fraught. But Phoebe’s a bit older and we know what we’re doing and so far, so no disasters.
We headed across the harbour to the pub at about 6pm hoping for some Cornish ale and fish and chips. The man at the bar said there was a 40 minute wait for food, but that things might be quicker in the restaurant/bistro attached to the pub. We decided to go there and though there was no one in the restaurant the woman there said we couldn’t have a table unless we’d booked, though we could go in the Bistro (which was just a room attached to the restaurant). We didn’t really care what they were calling the bit of the building we were sitting in, so went in there. A couple of middle-aged ladies were glumly eating in there already, not really speaking to each other. Did I spot their eyes rolling as we entered? They didn’t want to be in a restaurant (or even a bistro almost in a restaurant) with a baby, perhaps.
But Phoebe is well-behaved so it’s a shame if they were pre-judging. Phoebe has a bit of the sniffles at the moment (and pretty much all the time) and as we sat down, waiting for the slightly snooty restaurant lady to come back with a high-chair, Phoebe grabbed a napkin and wiped her own nose. I was impressed by this and helped her to wipe it and encouraged her to blow. Which she did, getting plaudits from her mum. I then showed her the napkin and said, “Look at your bogies!"
It was a nice family moment and in my excitement and fatherly pride I hadn’t considered that we were in public. But we weren’t in the risk and unless those ladies were really dressing down we weren’t in the company of royalty and we were on holiday in Cornwall where so far we had just encountered politeness and bon homie. One of the women chimed in, “Do you mind? People are eating.” I wasn’t sure if she was just messing around. Most people, I think, would have found this scene funny and charming. I was proud of my daughter for blowing her now nose and I had only said the word “bogies”. I hadn’t run round the bistro making everyone look at the contents of the napkin.
But I am a polite man and I realised that I had been a little inconsiderate and even though I thought the lady was probably just having fun, I gave a sincere “Oh, I’m sorry."
“I should think so,” said the woman in a tone of high umbrage that would have embarrassed Hyancith Bucket. Which was the most ungracious way to receive an apology that I think I have ever heard. Yes, I talked about bogies and maybe a little too loudly, but you were across the room and doing your own thing and maybe you should mind your own business.
I was taken aback by the affronted tone. My wife and our friend couldn’t believe what had just happened and were both holding back, desperate to come back as the woman had been much ruder in her ungraciousness than I had been in revelling in my daughter’s nasal effluent skill. At another time I might have taken the woman to task and said “Oh get over yourself your majesty. You’re a grown woman and I fucking apologised so go fuck yourself,” but I just cringed and laughed at the social awkwardness that had punctured the carefree start to our holiday.
The restaurant lady had made us feel like we were a mild inconvenience and now the fallout from this ridiculous confrontation hung in the air like a stale fart and there were plenty of other pubs and restaurants within easy walking distance. No one had brought us a high chair and the woman on her high horse had made it clear that we were spoiling her morose meal, so we decided to take ourselves elsewhere.
As I left I said “Come on Phoebe, let’s leave these unpleasant people to their dinner.” And we headed over to another pub where, although this one seemed pretty packed, the staff were accommodating and found us a table and a high chair and the men at the next table seemed friendly as they shared the internet code with us. We were back on track. A strong Cornish beer and some fish and chips later and I felt a bit full and tired. But had had fun with my daughter who had eaten her own portion of fish and chips and was now dipping her chips into her raspberry yoghurt, creating a fusion of foods that might have graced a Heston Blumenthal restaurant. It was messy and stupid and fun and I am glad we were doing all this in a friendly environment and not trapped in a bistro off an empty restaurant with some sour strangers who hated life. Hopefully the kitchen staff and worked out what shrews they were and had filled their puddings with acutal bogies by now. Not just the word bogies. Not just a baby's innocent pretty much aqueous bogies. Grown Cornishmen and women's bogies, blackened by a day's work in the tin mines.
