Verdes Restaurant in Eccleston

It's only when I start to read what I have written, that I realise my ramblings are a little one pointed, in that I only seem to write about things I notice when I am out and about.

But what else can I do? I mean, 'The cats not been looking to well, least not for the last few days...', or 'The neighbors are looking as miserable as ever......' or 'I am so disappointed with my new surround sound system....'.

See, it's not the same is it? You really couldn't be expected to give a damn about my cat, my neighbours or my new surround sound system. So I am only left to talk about things around Wrightington that you too may know or have experienced. Only then can you rise from your life of possible semi-stupor, (for that is what could possibly be indicated if you are reading this), and say 'Yes, I strongly agree with this fine fellow' or 'What a load of bollocks'.

So, it is with a growing sense of shame that I stick to the subject of eating out. It's hardly surprising really. I mean, I do eat out rather a lot. Usually once a day, sometimes twice. I used to adore cooking. I lost myself in french cuisine, oriental flaring stir-frys, meticulous central european 'peasant' recipes... then I got a life. I just haven't got the interest anymore. Somewhere, between a hastily reheated lasagne and a particularly unmemorable Lobster Bisque, the chef in me just.... died.

So now I go out to eat. I expect good food. After all, it's not a lot to ask. It's not as if cooking food is difficult. I expect good service. After all, giving someone what they want, with a vague look of a smile on your kisser, in exchange for money, is a simple task. Least it should be.

When I want a totally predictable plate of good food, with excellent service, I go to Verdes Italian Restaurant in Eccleston. It is a veritable oasis of happiness and good cooking.

For a start, all the staff smile, even when they are run off their feet. The Manager, I think his name is Gabrielle, is a true professional. He treats everybody, young and old, alike. He is warm and friendly. His chef is a good cook. And what else is there to say? Nothing. Good food. Good staff. No wonder the place is always busy.

Toogood Farm Shop, Wrightington

What's on the telly lately?
I'll tell you.
Three hundred programmes about lemming-like couples wanting to buy a 'property' abroad.
Four hundred programmes telling stick-in-the-mud Brits how to 'stay put' and make a fortune by renovating neglected property.
And seven hundred programmes telling you that unless you eat a load more vegetables, approximately 400 portions a day, you will die a painful and slow death.

It was after watching that Dr Gillian McKeith, publicly dissecting some poor chaps Number Two's, that I thought I had better improve my diet. (Imagine.... how did she become an 'expert' on Number Twos......? And you thought you had a bad job.....)

Enough of that.

I went to Tescos in Chorley and looked at their vegetables. And it wasn't right.
It just wasn't right.
Six perfectly round apples, nestled on a tray of expanded polystyrene foam, clad in a bag of clear plastic film, which trapped the 'special inert atmospheric gas', which kept the chemical-laden, dissinfected fruit.... fresh. Fresh?
I thought it was supposed to be healthy for me....?

I was uneasy.
If I was going to take responsibilty for what I eat, it wasn't going to be straightforward.
I know enough about chemistry to know that If I was going to buy the apples, I was about to enter a lucky dip. The apples might be OK. Or they might not.

I needed an alternative. I looked over to the 'organic' fruit and veg counter. That too looked like it had been packed for a space mission. It looked expensive too. I needed another alternative.

I rummaged through my memories, looking under 'Dirty fruit' and 'Soily spuds', 'Mutant carrots', and then 'Farm shops'. Eureka! Toogood Farm Shop was right under my nose!

Don't let anybody tell you that you can't get good fruit and veg any more- because you can.
You can actually tell that the people run this farm shop actually care about what they sell. They sell all the basic fruit veg and and they also sell some of the more exotic stuff too.

Mind you, it pays to know what you are buying. Last week I bought a 'thing'. Actually, it was a 'green thing'. That's all I can tell you. I got it home and couldn't figure it out. So I had a bit of it in a salad. Suffice to say, I think it should have been cooked. It was like top grade, green concrete. Certainly Dr Gillian McKeith would have found it in my Number...
No..., let's not go there.

Most of the stuff they sell in Toogood farm shop is really good. The staff are friendly and helpful, especially Rowena.

So, after weeks of munching on all kinds of fruit and veg, after weeks of 'cleansing' my dear old colon, I have not noticed any improvement in my health. But I have met some nice people, which is always a bonus.

I enjoy eating good food, and should the door ever burst open whilst I am sat on the 'throne', I can remain seated with a smug self confidence, sure in the knowledge that my Number Twos are...... au naturelle.

Bring it on, Dr McKeith!

BP Garage at Wrightington

A lot of garages are sorry places nowadays. I don't know why.
Maybe the staff are sick of people moaning about the price of fuel?
Maybe the staff are sick of selling one thousand other products as well as fuel?
Or maybe they are all working too long hours and are just knackered?

But, the BP garage at Wrightington is a pleasant change.
All the staff, (and there must be at least eight or nine of them), are really pleasant.
They smile... even when they are obviously tired.
They laugh, which makes me laugh.
They ask me how I am.
Now, that is special.
Not even my nearest and dearest asks me how I am!

Thank you.

The Dickinson Arms, Dangerous Corner

Just a quick observation.
Do you remember that scene in that old Star Wars movie? The one where the hero walks into a bar on some far-off planet, and it is full of strange looking creatures? I think George Lucas, the Director, won an oscar for that scene alone.

Well, I know where he got his inspiration from.

Go to The Dickinson Arms on a friday night.

Seriously.

Moss Lane, Wrightington

Today was bitterly cold. The temperature gauge in the car read -4'C this morning. With a slight wind blowing, I was freezing. The car was coated with a slight dusting of snow, although the t.v. informs me that half the country is covered in ankle deep snow.

I love the snow. In fact I am that rare breed of person that likes all weather. Rain, hail, wind, snow, I am not bothered, I love it.

For some reason, the windscreen on my car had no ice on it whatsoever. I just started the car, clenched my freezing buttocks, momentarily imagined my hands freezing to the steering wheel, then took of on my travels.

One of the perks of driving through Wrightington in winter, is seeing other motorists, usually commuters driving much too fast, climbing out of the gap in the hedge, leaving their fine vehicles stranded in the field.

One would have thought, that the total absence of salt on all the B roads through Wrightington, would indicate that the roads are slippy and dangerous. Indeed, the presence of sheets of ice and holes in the hedges from previous accidents, would also cast doubt on the wisdom of racing to work via the winding country roads of Wrightington. Alas, I thought wrong.

This morning I was driving along at a stately, yet safe 15 mph. Then I caught site of a black sporty BMW in my rear view mirror. It appeared to be coming at me from behind at about 60 mph. My buttocks, which had only just begun to relax and relish the heated seat, immediately reclenched, preparing for the worst.

At the very last split-second before rear impact, the 'racing' car, which I can confirm was a BMW, pulled out in from behind me and overtook. With my buttocks clenched into a solid ring, and my hands, arms and shoulders welded to the steering wheel, I glanced sideways as the black menace seered by.

What I saw baffled me. He was obviously human, of that there is no doubt. He was a young man, around 20 years old, well groomed, but... But how can I describe his expression?

His childish look of anger and distaste, indicated that at some recent point in the past, I personally had defacated in his mouth, whilst simultaneously proving beyond reasonable doubt, that his mother had never loved him. If indeed, she ever was his mother.

A variety of thoughts all appeared to happen at once. I thought,
'He is going to fast'.
'How the hell can he afford to drive that car?'.
'Lucky bastard'.
'What the hell is he looking at?'.
'Mummies boy'.
'He's going to kill himself, driving like that'.
That last thought broke my indignancy. It was then that I realised, that I was indeed about to witness an accident.

About 300 yards ahead was a bend that is always covered in ice in winter. I just took my foot of the accelerator and watched.

I saw him driving at about 60.
I saw him, no, I felt him 'see' the ice.
I saw the brake lights come on.
I saw a brief, almost flirtish waggle of back end BMW.
Then I saw his beautiful car disappear through the hedge.

I couldn't help it. I knew I shouldn't. But I smiled. Just briefly. But enough to vindicate myself, my driving. With justice arrogantly coursing my veins, I uttered 'You stupid bastard'.

My car, my co-accused, my vindicated partner, together we idled towards the hole in the hedge.
We saw Mummies Boy get out of the car, (it was probably hers).
We saw he was OK, just shaken. He had a smart blue shirt on and a 'Aren't I a big guy now?' red tie.

Even though I was still travelling at 15 mph, even though he was now 50 yards away, I could still make out his frozen nipples, prodding, like little fingers against his fancy shirt. I hadn't finished with him yet. Once more, with shear, smug, warm-arsed pleasure, I uttered 'You stupid bastard'.

I could see him on his mobile. The cocky, boy racer was now in trouble. His toothy snarl no longer present. His spitty venom left in the soil-sprinkled BMW. He was worried. He was upset.
No. He was more than upset. He was devastated.

His world, his new found dream, his adventure into manhood had been pulled from under him.
And now he just wanted his mum. Or his dad. It didn't really matter which.
He just wanted to be loved.

As my plodding car glided past the newly-made opening in the hedge, our eyes met. I raised my arm instinctively, waving, enquiring, caring, offering... In a timeless glimpse, we became friends. He ushered me on my way, silently thanking me. He was going to be OK.

He just wanted to be loved.
And I guess we all know what that's like.