Ey up, dear readers! Your favourite Yorkshire lass is back with another thrilling instalment of our lives that we couldn’t make up if we tried and questionable culinary choices. Welcome to the continuing saga of ‘Kate’s Life: Not Quite Downton Abbey’, more like ‘Downton Chippy’ if we’re honest.

So, picture this: yesterday we finally rolled back home, bags in tow, looking’ like we’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Usually, I’d lob my suitcase by the door and ignore it for a week, but not this time. Oh no, I were a new woman! I put everything back where it belonged, except all the socks with no mates; they’ve probably eloped with the Tupperware lids.

After my top-level unpacking, I collapsed onto the sofa for a proper nana nap. Woke up an hour later, mouth drier than a cream cracker and a puddle of drool on my chin. Back to reality with a bang, eh? Decided to drag a brush through my hair and slap a bit of war paint on for the first time in yonks. Might’ve frightened the neighbours, but needs must.

Then off we trotted to the vets with Nora, who’s about as welcoming as a wet Tuesday in January if you’re not family. Oscar, bless him, started howling like a banshee as we left him home alone; you’d think we were abandoning him in the wilds of Scarborough, not popping out for 20 minutes. Nora did her best ‘touch me, and I’ll chew your digits off’ impression at the vet, with her teeth on full display. She’s fiercely loyal, but if you’re a stranger, best keep them mitts to yourself, love.

Her booster jab was a success thanks to a muzzle that was on Nora, not the vet (though it was a close call), and being £77 lighter, we legged it home. Oscar greeted Nora as if she’d just come back from a world tour. Dogs, eh? The drama!

Now, it was finally KATE TIME. I’d been dreaming of a slap-up meal and a glass of vino to celebrate my birthday. I had spied this place in Fraisthorpe on Facebook; the page was banging on about homemade steak pie, quiches, and proper chips. Well, say no more! I practically skipped there, stomach rumbling like a tractor.

But when I swung open the door, expecting rustic charm, what did I find? A canteen straight out of a 1970s motorway service station. Smelt more of cow muck than culinary magic. Turns out, the legendary menu was just that , a legend. The lady behind the counter looked at me like I’d asked for unicorn steak. ‘We’ve not done that food for years, love.’

Well, bugger that for a birthday treat. No way was I having a limp cheese toastie on my special day. So we did a tactical retreat and tore off to our ‘can’t-go-wrong’ restaurant down the road. Starter was grand,  battered mushrooms for me, chilli jam spring rolls for Matthew. Then my pizza rocked up, and honest to God, the base was blacker than Nora’s coat. One bite and I nearly set off the smoke alarm. I sent it back and refused anything else; I’d lost the will to eat by then.

On the way home, we called in at Nanna Bambi’s house for my birthday prezzy, which put a big grin on my face after my culinary disaster. Only downside: those battered mushrooms came back to haunt me with a dose of indigestion that could wake the dead.

So here I am, parked on the sofa, after a dose of heartburn and pondering life, and what on earth I’ll eat for tea tonight because you never have any food in when you get back from your holidays. Plus, what to do with the rest of my birthday weekend. I am  back to work on Tuesday, so you can bet your left foot more daft adventures, and some new characters will follow. Tune in next week for more tales of misadventure, where my disasters are your entertainment.

Grand, innit?

Have a great long weekend, and I will be back next week.. cos until then I am doing NOWT!

Chow for now!

Kate xx

Disclaimer:
No pizzas; 1970’s style canteen, or vets were seriously harmed in the making of this blog post, although my dignity took a right battering. Any resemblance to actual restaurants serving edible food is purely coincidental. Readers are advised not to attempt Nana naps on empty stomachs, argue with a previous restaurant turned canteen about proper chips, or stroke Nora unless you’ve made your peace with your fingers. Side effects may include spontaneous cravings for battered mushrooms, fits of laughter, or sudden urges to unpack your suitcase before next Tuesday.

Read at your own risk; entertainment not guaranteed, but highly likely.