A Heron in the Fish Pond

When I was back home in Blighty last week I took my favourite aunt and uncle out for dinner.  Where I grew up in Hertfordshire there are many beautiful and very old English pubs in fact if ever I were to go on Mastermind, the pub culture in England would probably be a good subject for me.  I grew up surrounded by references to The Crooked Chimney, The Red Lion, The Horns, The White Hart, The Sun, The Brocket Arms, The Crown and The Hedgehog – the rough one next to the church.  All have old world charm dating back hundreds of years with real fires and low-beamed ceilings, lit by carriage lamps and selling proper beer.

We are to meet at The Waggoners  for dinner which is now run, to my delight, by a French Chef and his French team.

At one minute past the meeting time of seven o’clock Madre who is also with us, auntie Joan (AJ) being her sister, starts breathing heavily and says,

 ”They’re never late, something must have happened. I’m very worried.”  We have to prevent her calling the police at 5 minutes past and then at 7 minutes past with Madre grinding her teeth in anxiety, they arrive in a fluster of apologies.  How this older generation would deal with the varied and unpredictable arrival times of some of my dinner guests is hard to imagine.

“I’m so sorry,” gasps Aunty Joan loud enough for the whole pub to pause mid-sip and stare. “We had to stay back because Tommy Steele was on the One Show and HE,”  points at Uncle Dennis  ” HE,”  pauses for effect whilst we all consider the accused, “old wrinkly here, wanted to see what he looked like.”  

Vanity at 80?  God help me, I thought laughing at the two of them who after donkey’s years of marriage are still madly in love and bantering.

The menus arrive, reading glasses are found and passed around the table, explications given as to the frenchified food names amidst bemused mutterings of “there’s posh”.  An explication of en croûte from me leads AJ to remark “wrapped in pastry” in a tone which makes me doubt my whole life and consider whether perhaps the French are completely wrong about food. 

Uncle Dennis orders, double checks with AJ that he will like what he is eating as he is unable to remember what he doesn’t like any more and then launches into the story of how his golf game was ruined that week.

“I’m lying in bed, quarter to seven thinking I’ve got a nice game of golf to look forward to today when SHE shouts from the kitchen There’s a heron in the fish pond! and I jumps out of bed so fast I pull a muscle, had to sit in the golf buggy I did.”

Ninety minutes later, tightly hugged, we were waving them off into the night.

This week I received a Thank You card in the post.