Picking Up The Baton

I get up and escape the wreckage of last night’s gathering to collect some tools from my parent’ place, exercise the dogs at the same time and hope that tranquillity will be restored to home by the time I return. Then I spend the afternoon gardening. I bizarre pastime that I participate in only about twice a year.

L meanwhile runs the half marathon course as planned, well not quite as planned because she comes back reckoning that she’s clocked up fifteen miles and not thirteen. So having done seven or something like that yesterday, she just needs a shorter run tomorrow to achieve her goal.

Everyone is out; we have both ticked out to do list for the day, so time for a hot bath and some chilling. Then Daughter unexpectedly pops home with a friend. Bugger.

Chilling rescheduled we go for L's favourite night, or so she says, which is gym then pub. I join her in the gym. L’s vowed to get so fit she’ll look twenty years younger, so I’ll have to do the same or else if she achieves it, I’ll look like a dirty old man with her on my arm. Except she's too knackered to do any cardio so it's left for me to pick up the baton. 4k run, followed by a 3k bike, 2k on the stepper, a brief 500m row and 2 pints of Mordue IPA 5.1% (nice).

We’ve not shed twenty years yet though; neither of us got asked for ID in the pub.

Then we head down to the reopened Scruffys to try out the food. The menu doesn’t look very scruffy, there’s a distinct lack of burgers (good), chilli’s (not so good) and cheese (definitely not so good), everything at the old place was smothered in cheese. The menu in fact looks, dare I say it, posh although when it comes the food turns out to be quite basic but pleasant with it. The place isn't very busy for a Saturday, so they've got some work to do to make it a success. We'll be back if only because we want to see it do well, the staff were so friendly and because they're replaced the Bombardier with Hobgoblin. It was a good beer night all round.