Midlands

I have just written a grumpy email to the manager of the Midland.

In fact it is the second grumpy email. The first one was detailing my complaints. Tonight’s email was explaining why he was entirely wrong about his refutation of my complaints, what does he know?

They have watered down the orange juice, and I am very cross about it. Also, instead of the nice lady with a silver coffee pot, they have installed a ghastly coffee machine in the dining room for breakfast. You would not think that this would matter, but it does. It is like being in some vile French roadside hostelry, where they give you a croissant and some unidentifiable cheese in a paper bag for breakfast.

Obviously it is not exactly like that because you still get eggs and bacon and sausages for breakfast, I like mine with hash browns and Mark has all sorts of disgusting gloop on his, beans and tomatoes and other such slop. I do not like my breakfast to be liquid, at least not since I used to go on holiday with my friends and one of them did a good line in home-made vodka.

Now that I am nearly sixty I prefer the lady with the coffee pot. She has been there for years and used to hug the children and tell them that they had grown, which of course we knew but it was nice to be told. When we went at Christmas she was too busy to do anything other than wave and dash past.

I am concerned about the Midland because we will be going there again at half term. This was the children’s Christmas present, and just as a thought, whilst purchasing Christmas presents for your own offspring you might want to consider this. Happy Christmas. Your parents are going to stay in an hotel at half term. I hope this makes you feel happy.

That last bit was a joke. Obviously the children are coming with us. We are only going in a supervisory capacity, so to speak.

Their Christmas presents were tickets to Blood Brothers, which is on at some Manchester theatre at half term, and which they have both gone on about for ages. I have seen it but it was a long time ago, possibly about forty years, and so it will be good to refresh my memory.

I do like having reached the age where I can talk about doing even grown-up things forty years ago, how sage and sensible it makes me sound.

Anyway, the manager from the Midland Hotel has promised me that we will have a lovely time this visit, and hopes that we will meet up with him whilst we are there. This is a nuisance because it means that I will have to make sure I am looking respectable and that Mark is not wearing the flat cap with the oil stains and the paint. The children usually manage to look all right, I will just have to check before I leave that I have not inadvertently paired some red trousers with a lime-green T-shirt and mustard-coloured cardigan, or similar sartorial blooper. Regular readers might remember that my inability to match colours has caused me difficulty in the past.

I have actually got some beautifully bright red trousers that I have never worn, and I am longing to wear them. I considered them when we went out with Number One Daughter the other week. I tried them with the green shirt, and the pink shirt, and the orange shirt, and the effects were gorgeously vivid, but I was not sure if Number One Daughter would approve, and in the end put them back in the drawer. Some advice would be welcomed here. Do red trousers look all right with purple? I have got a nice purple shirt. I have also got a yellow one with little purple flowers.

I am going to have to have some sober reflection on the subject before half term.

Not now. I have got half a glass of wine to go.