To Wivenhoe House Hotel! …on Friday afternoon to celebrate something of a momentous personal moment. Let’s just keep it at that.
On the menu, of course, was afternoon tea. We’ve had a hit and miss experience before at Wivenhoe House. One completely forgettable occasion was a spoiled vegetarian Christmas dinner. You were fine if you were fans of eating thick cardboard with nothing much else in between.
But you can’t go wrong with afternoon tea, right? What’s so tricky about sausage rolls, scones, and cake, as Nick Lowe once almost sang?
I thought I would humour our rather polite waiter when he asked if we have any dietary requirements. My dining partner said:
“I don’t like fish.”
What the chuff? We’re going to tuck into sannies and cake. There’s no fish on the menu, luv.
Mr. Waiter responded by correcting me, saying that there was actually some rather fine salmon sandwiches.
Oh. I see.
We were asked if we wanted to upgrade to the Prosecco option. No ta. Afternoon tea is afternoon tea. I want thick builders' tea and not some poncey Essex fizzy shit to wash it all down with.
I thought I was suitably dressed. It was a dress down Friday after all. I was kind of smart, almost definitely casual. My self-confidence had taken something of a hit earlier in the morning when my Money Man told me I was looking scruffy for our annual catch up.
First out of the traps was a pot of tea. This was far better than any crappy Prosecco shit.
And then came the main dining option. Also out came my phone. It’s all about the Instas innit. Just show us the fucking snap.
The food selection actually was rather quite delightful. The highlights were a rather savoury sausage roll, a very light but filling cheese scone, and, of course, the salmon sarnies. No food allergies here mate.
As well as a very fine waiter, there was also an extremely confident maître d' also doing the rounds. I think he clocked us very early on and picked up on my lack of social skills and refusal to do small talk.
I managed to blank him throughout the entire sitting - or rather he managed to blank me. The Coffee Ponce back in SW8 would have been proud of my lack of small talk vibes I was giving off.
An hour or so later we emerged out of Wivenhoe House Hotel. It wasn’t quite a Mr. Creosote scene from Monty Python, but I was well and truly stuffed.
These rather momentous personal moments come around too often.
