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We do nothing much all day so in the evening we decide to go to the Rock Hotel restaurant - which operates in the summer
months in the open air next to their swimming pool.
When we walk in there are only three people there and when I read the menu I can see why - tapas to start and tapas to end.
Boring. But no, it is actually a magnificent meal and we panic that maybe it will close down for lack of custom.
So, COME TO THE ROCK HOTEL TO EAT. Right now.
We catch a 'plane to Manchester and the evening finds us in Warrington admiring the giant nut cracker which they have conveniently located on a motorway roundabout. Who says Councils have no sense of humour?
We set off for Sunderland via Saddleworth Moor, which has a wonderful radio mast and Wetherby which has a wonderful cafe.
On the way back we end up at Betty's in Harrogate, as usual.
My girlfriend takes the usual photos of flowers while I am otherwise engaged.
At 11.00pm we arrive at the Sprowston Manor Hotel in Norwich after 250 miles in the rain to be told by a nervous and
babbling girl that they are overbooked and despite reserving a room we cannot have one!
The good news is that they will pay for us to stay in the splendid Dutton Hall where we are upgraded to a suite. Including
dinner the whole bill is just over £50 instead of the listed £250.
Next time we will book into Dutton Hall in the hope that they will be overbooked and we will then stay free of charge in
the Sprowston Manor Hotel which is better located for us. Simples.
We check out of Dutton Hall, which is all serious old wood and eventually end up in Russell Square ...
... where we admire some new wood. Whether this is an art installation (I don't remember a tree in that location)
with ironic spelling or an illiterate attempt by a tree hugger, I am not sure. Either way, I quite like it.
When we get to the Haagen Dazs in Leicester Square, we are given a wonderful window seat as obviously we are beautiful
people. At least, compared with the horror show outside we are. A fat ugly woman with a Fat Ugly Kid. For the next 25
minutes the FUK wipes its repulsive self all over the window while I mouth "f**k off, you FUK" to no avail, through the
glass. Eventually, the FUK leaves and is immediately replaced by a vision in white who stays for all of 25 seconds. I think
this is somehow related to
Gresham's Law.
Or maybe not.
Later, a girl in Leicester Square poses for us. I tell her that millions of foot perverts the world over will slaver over
her tootsies. Actually, I think I forgot to tell her that. I meant to, though.
Back home to Gibraltar, where we have pizzas in Mamma Mia. The tables are covered in grit from the road and the flies are
very persistent and my pizza is very salty. And the "chocolate mouse" and the "fruit of the forrest" are off the menu. For
spell checking, presumably. Illiteracy is feeding through into the mainstream, innit. No wot I mean?
But there are lots of pretty girls so it is not all bad.
Feeling a bit tired, we call in at Aqa for a drink and find that they have laid on (so to speak) a whole bevy of lovely ladies for our delectation. Now that is what I call service.
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