Odds of Evens means a sure-fire loser

We sped over to Nottingham at a snail's pace this morning (owing to the M1 roadworks, which have now reached new heights of ridiculousness) for a long-delayed visit to my Mum. We haven't been over since the weekend before her birthday, which is in March, but to be honest we've (I've) been putting it off. These visits are becoming more of an emotional ordeal with each tick of life's relentless clock. With a rapidly failing memory, she hardly ever has any news for us, simply on account of her not being able to remember much of what has happened, and so has fallen back even more heavily on her stock of extremely well-worn and oft-repeated phrases in lieu of real conversation.

This time around, even my standard levels of dread were insufficient to set expectations for the new depths this visit would plumb as I embarked on the pointless task of relating our news. I say pointless, because it's obvious even during the telling that most of it will be forgotten moments afterward, but there is, clearly, no other option. We can't sit it in silence for four hours.

One of our snippets was that I've recently hooked up with my cousin Joanne on Facebook. Now it's hard enough explaining the concept of Facebook to someone who has absolutely no interest in the Internet, and pretty much no concept of why anyone would want to spend time on it, but I'm used to having to dish up copious quantities of modern-day cultural scaffolding to shore up my stories so that wasn't much of an issue. I was totally unprepared however for the complete lack of recognition on my Mum's part for the name 'Joanne'.

"You know. Jacqueline's daughter."
Blank stare. Slight shake of the head.
"No, I don't know who she is."

We had some photos of Nat's recent Belize trip on our iPod/Phone too.
"Here's one of Nat with a boa constrictor round her neck."
Short pause.
"Who did you say this was?"

But this post isn't really about Mother And Her Failing Memory. To counteract the stress of these visits we occasionally treat ourselves to a pub meal on the way home.

We initially intended to stop at our favourite journeying watering hole - the Dog & Partridge at Dunford Bridge. Home of the UK's finest fish supper as well as an extensive range of main meal alternatives and a good supply of fine local ales. However, since our last visit to the Dog, we have sampled the delights of...

... the Bull I' Th' Thorn just outside Buxton; scene of much hilarity (not to mention temporarily misplaced tempers) during Annie's birthday weekend. Nikki had had a hankering for one of Graham's meat pies for a few days, and casually dropped the stone of the Bull into the calm millpond of our chosen eatery just as I'd thought everything was all settled.

As usual, the final decision was left to me.

"Why do I have to pick? I always pick."
"Because I'm not bothered which one we go to."
"Neither am I."
etc.

I didn't know which one I'd end up heading for until we set off back home, at which point I plumped for the Bull. Mainly, it has to be said, because the sun had broken through the mid-afternoon cloud, and I fancied a leisurely drive through the rolling hills of Derbyshire in preference to the "same old same old" aspect of the trans-Pennine route.

Bad decision.

As we approached the Bull from the south, we were almost upon it (in fact I'd already started indicating to turn into the car park) when we noticed both entrances were cordoned off with dayglo orange barriers, and the camping field next to the pub was awash with multicoloured canvas. One of Graham's famous biking rallies? A camping weekend organised by a group WAY more into tents than the Chorlton Players? Whatever it was, the pub was clearly closed to all but the chosen few, and our dinner plans were left as ragged and bloody as a piece of weekend roadkill.

A few hundred yards further up the road we tripped over the Duke of York, which proved to be *almost* the equal of the Bull in terms of comestible quality, and what's more served up a cracking pint of Robinson's. Result!