So much for posting every day until Christmas.
In your own defence, as well as the projectile vomiting, and the associated cleaning frenzy in the aftermath, there were also two Christmas dos to fit in and a morning chasing an appointment all over South London.
You recommend greyhound racing for a works outing by the way. It wasn’t your office party, or even B’s, but B’s driving instructor’s. What can you say? At least you spared them all from falling back on talking shop.
You won £3.50. That’s once.
You lost £24. That’s 12 races. You can conclusively say that you cannot pick a dog. Yours came in last three times.
You do have one tip, however. Wear extra jumpers and two pairs of socks. The viewing gallery stroke restaurant is not meant to be occupied in shirt sleeves in the middle of a cold snap.
But the food was good.
Which is more than you can say about the Argentinian restaurant your school patronised for the other blow out.
You were unsurprised to find that the main course consisted of a very large hunk of beef and nothing else, because you had rather gathered that this is Argentinian cuisine at its best, but you weren’t prepared for the two and a half hour wait that came between the starter and the steak. I mean, how difficult can it be to slap a cow on the barbie?
Very, apparently, given that anyone who had ordered medium rare got it raw. Of course, the funny thing about serving chunks of meat to British people is that British people have often been brought up on Sunday roasts and can be quite fussy about it. You, for example, didn’t appreciate the gristle and fat in what should have been a prime cut.
And in the end you barely had time to drink your completely unfrozen sorbet* before fleeing to catch the last train home. Becuase the other issue with the establishment is that it was almost the opposite end of London to where you work, and therefore to where most of the staff actually live.
Ah well. That’s what happens when restaurants are run by your boss’s former bank manager.
But the company was good, which is really the point. Almost good enough to allow you to forget your howling stomach. And nobody photocopied their knickers, which is also a plus, and quite surprising given the very liberal hand your boss has with the wine.
* You are suspicious about this. Can sorbet be liquid? Everybody did politely neck it, but unlike the beef, you think that you were had and that the kitchen had run out of frozen pudding and just served what they had. Lemon flavoured water in this case.